♡ Hi I'm Sade' I'm 20 and I love fanfics writing and of course skz. This is practicality a Chan fan account atp. Writes about my bias Chan a lot but if anyone actually wants a request I'd write about any and all of of the members! I'll still be getting used to writing about them so bare with me and my writing for now.
My Ult is Chan but my bias wreckers are Hyunlix but I'm also ot8 ofc. I'll probably mainly be writing fluff because I just really love it a lot and, maybe hints of angst too! (Requests for smut closed for unforeseeable future) (Regular requests closed until I can catch up sorry!!)
Warnings: Potentially bad angst, angst in general, mentions of insecurities - burn out, overwhelm, anxiety -, I think that's it.
A/N: First time writing angst in awhile but this is low key how I've been feeling lately aside from not dating Chris obviously. I wanted to express that in the idea of a fic so here it is and I tried making it longer since I feel my fics aren't very long. I hope this turns out good, I feel like the angst wasn't too crazy but the end is super fluffy so its okay. Okay thanks for reading enjoy!
~
It wasn't rare these days for you to be at home alone these days, despite the fact that you shared the spacious apartment with your boyfriend of 4 years. You've been together for so long now, been through many a fight and hardship together. Though lately it's been tense. Quiet like you both are tip-toeing around each other. Like you both know that anything could break the constructed normalcy between you two now.
Though it's easy to blame the other when your both to blame. You push Chris away when you're at your lowest expecting him to be able to read your mind, despite him already being wound so tight already. You're both struggling in your own ways but, you both find it hard to open up. You've been anxious and feeling so low not even having the energy to talk and, now with the worsening ache in your stomach today you can't help but feel worse. While Chris has been stressed and overwhelmed from working so hard.
You're exhausted and irritable. Chris has been sleeping at the dorms more and more lately. Truthfully he's scared. Scared to admit that you two are hurting, that you're broken, like you might be too far gone to fix. Chris is scared to lose you, it might be one of his biggest fears.
The sound of the front door closing behind him echos through the apartment. Usually you'd get up immediately rushing into his arms but with your with your cramps you're rooted in place - not that you'd be able to find anything to say.
"Hey babe... m'home..." Chris mumbles as he quietly makes his way into the bedroom. He talks as though he's scared to unsettle the room. You glance up at him nodding your head in his direction once before looking away again pressing harder against your abdomen.
"You okay...?"' He questions quietly his eyes worn and tired but the concern is hard to miss. "Stop.. please." You mutter back voice rough from not speaking in hours. He's taken aback, confusion striking his features now. "Stop...? ...Stop what- what do you mean I'm just-" He doesn't get to finish speaking — "You don't have to pretend to care." You cut in your rough voice making you sound colder. His face falls as he stops moving closer, his hands clenching and uncleching at his sides.
"You really think... I'm pretending to care...?" His voice gets lower not with anger but an unbelievable amount of hurt he's trying hard to mask. "I know things have been tense lately... so it might be hard to believe.. but I do still care about you." He runs a hand through his hair with a heavy sigh before he sits down on the edge of the bed.
"What... what happened to us Chris...?" The vulnerable question was expected at some point but it still catches him off guard. His first instinct is to get defensive, looking away his jaw jumps once before letting out an uneven breath. "Are you not gonna say anything? Chris im serious- "I know- its not like im unaware onlf you always pulling away and ignoring me." His words hit you hard, its not like it's not true but it hurt to hear out loud especially since hes been doing the same. "Are you kidding me.. what about you. You never even stay over here anymore of course I'm not going to be happy-go-lucky."
"And why do you think that is?"
"So all of this is my fault now- you're not going to sit here and act like you're not also to blame."
He sits and stares at you before his eyes dart away a heavy sigh leaving him. He runs a hand through his hair again his voice barely audible now.
"I don't know... we just... haven't been talking." He mutters looking down at his hands in his lap. He slowly reaches a hand out to rest on your thigh his eyes pleading. "I'm sorry... you're right- there's been so many times... I've wanted to just-"
He cuts himself off his eyes suspiciously watery before he looks away. You shift closer cupping his cheeks Turing him to face you again. "Talk to me- please... I can't keep going on like this." "You don't understand how many times I- I thought about ending things... how many times I thought it'd be better to leave then stay in this limbo..." The admitted words — 'breaking up', the fact that it's crossed your mind more then once. It absolutely breaks Chris in two.
He stares up at you mouth open and closing like he's unsure of what to even say. He simply pulls you into his arms holding you tight against him sniffling softly. "I was scared... and I was being selfish... I didn't want to admit we were struggling... "I didn't wanna lose you... I still don't..." His admission cracks your heart open. You let out a shaky breath holding him tight as tears spill over your blotchy cheeks.
"I don't wanna lose you either.. of course I don't... you think I haven't been scared...?" "I thought you stopped caring... I've missed you so much but... if I say anything I'm nagging and clingy." Your eyebrows pinch together as you try not to cry more. "Oh babygirl... I've never stopped caring about you... I just thought you wanted space and then eventually the work piled up." He groans under his breath frustrated with himself and the situation. "It felt like you were pushing me away... I thought I was doing the right thing." You look up at him with glassy eyes sighing softly. "We both pushed each away... I just get scared... if I say anything.. anything at all that's bothering me... I'll scare you off. I mean I get mean and moody why would you want to put up with that... why should you have to..." "Because I love you.. even when you get a little grumpy or you're just not having a good day or week.. whatever. You think you'll scare me away for being human, baby I've been thinking of ways to fix things for weeks... knowing I couldn't picture myself with anyone else."
"I know I've been distant... and so busy but I swear... There's no where else I wanted to be.
His words send a tender ache beneath your ribs one that has your eyes watering again. "Chris stop saying stuff like that..." You mutter with a watery laugh but the look in his eyes is tender, serious as he wipes your tears away. "I don't want this distance between us anymore. I miss you so much and I can't stand walking around our home worried it's just a breaking point for us." You nod as you cup his cheeks resting your forhead against his before you hiss softly under your breath. Your cramps picking the perfect moment to act up again. Chris's eyes lock on you immediately his hand finding your abdomen. Feeling the tense muscles under his palm his eyes soften with concern.
"Baby, how about I take care of you tonight, we can talk more tomorrow let me just be here for you right now...?" He looks at you with those soft worried eyes, a look you know all too well - before you shrug your shoulders. Your habit of not accepting help feeling full circle to the topic of your issues right now — though it's not a no.
He gets up and finds your heating pad plugging it in before adjusting it against you and tucking you back into the covers. "I'll be right back.. I'll make you some tea, have you eaten..?" He asks as his voice taken a noticeably softer edge. You look down at your lap shaking your head. He sighs softly in understanding before kissing your forehead, standing up to fix you a quick meal and tea.
He comes back a few minutes later with a steaming bowl of ramen and an equally steamy mug of green tea. Setting them both down on your side table before sitting down on the edge of the bed, he brushes some hair out of your face.
"Here baby eat up, I made you some ramen." His voice was soft and it coaxing. He hands you the bowl and watches you carefully for a moment as you eat before getting up to change into something more comfortable. "I'll be right back love, you just rest up and eat okay?" You nod softly as you continue to eat watching him move around the room, with an ease that wouldn't suggest how tense these walls have been lately.
By the time he makes it back into bed fresh faced and clingy. He slips into bed next to you as you're sipping your tea a small smile tugging at you lips. He wraps his arms around you tight watching you set you mug down before looking down at him. "Feeling any better baby?" His voice is soft devoid of the tense and rough cadence, his fingertips brushing gently against your arm. "Yeah... I am it's just..." You trail off the words left unsaid, obvious to Chris. "I know baby... but it's been a long day for us both yeah? Let's just try and get some rest and we can talk more in the morning hmm?" He asks softly his eyes soft and focused on you, his fingertips continuing their gentle movements up and down your arm.
You smile softly leaning down to kiss his cheek before nodding. "Okay... yeah that sounds good."
You move closer into his arms letting him hold you against his chest. "Missed this... missed you... so much."
You bury your face in his chest sniffling softly but Chris just holds you even tighter.
He holds you all night and he doesn't let go. Not even even when the sun begins to peek through the blinds and through your curtains. The same ones you two picked out together when you moved in together after two years of dating. You think back to moments like that a lot, especially lately.
Like how despite how busy Chris would be he'd always make sure when he's home you're right next to him even as he works. Or how he'll fight with you on making dinner despite you both being tired, wanting to be the one to take care of him. You think back to some of your first dates a lot — lots of late night walks and cooking dates at your apartment. All the times he'd help you take off your makeup when you were too tired to yourself or how you'd help style and take care of his curls.
You miss the simple moments the most with him. Sitting in peaceful silence together his arm around your waist or hand perched on your thigh, never letting you forget here's right by your side.
You turn in his arms brushing the dark strands of his curls out of his eyes. You smile a weary smile your nose pressing gently against his cheek. He shifts under your touch blinking slowly up at you.
"Mmm morning baby... how you feeling?"
Chris's morning voice has a grin tugging at your lips before you hum nodding slowly.
"I slept great.. how bout you?" You ask as your hand plays with the hair at the nape of his neck. "I slept pretty good... mhmm."
He says as he nods before leaning back staring up at you.
"Are you still upset... you know about everything...?"
The question catches you off guard, you pull back yourself watching him closely. "I'm upset that... it's taken this long for us to even acknowledge we were struggling." The words hit you both, it anchors you both to the room, the moment heavy and waiting.
"Me too... but we're here now... that's progress right...?" His words come out shaky, unsure like he's still scared you'll pull the rug out from under him and still suggest breaking up. "Yeah... progress... we just need to talk to each other... instead of pretending ignoring the problem is going to solve anything." Chris sits up nodding, suddenly more serious now.
"Okay let's just... lay everything out on the table.. talk about what's been bothering us and, maybe ways to fix the distance that's been happening between us. Do you... wanna start?" He's completely focused on you his tone soft and patient. You feel your stomach ease a little. You've been worried for weeks about this conversation but right now you feel like you can speak your mind.
"I've just been... really down, like I didn't have much energy to be in a relationship..." You look down as you admit not feeling being in the right mental space to be in a relationship a wave a guilt washing over you. "Like talking and having to be cheery and being nice to be around... it just felt like too much... I guess I was being selfish." He shakes his head quickly, taking your hands squeezing them gently.
"Baby please don't call yourself selfish just because you were struggling. If you don't feel like talking then tell me... we can just sit in silence until you feel like talking again. Just please don't push me away I want to help you.. be there for you always."
"Well you can't push me away either... it's like you're scared to come home these days." His face falls before sighing softly. "You're right... I thought I was giving you space but I was only making things worse... I should've talked to you... ask you what you needed instead of assuming and pulling away."
You sigh shakily before nodding slowly. "We both made some mistakes... yeah..." He lets out a small shaky laugh. "We just gotta tell each other what's on out mind... we can't keep bottling things up baby. It's not healthy and it's only hurting us in the long run."
"I know, I know... it's just hard... I get so scared letting people in... because it's just seems like everytime I do I feel like a burden like I'm being too much. He moves in closer cupping your cheeks his gaze steady and sure. "You're not a burden, you're not too much. You're human and sometimes you won't feel up to talking, you won't be happy all the time, and that's okay none of that means you're not deserving of love and being happy. I'll always take care of you and I'm sorry I haven't been doing a very good job of that lately."
A watery laugh escapes you as you fall into his arms tears streaming down your cheeks staining his shirt. He runs a hand up and down your back tugging you gently into his lap. He presses a few tender kisses to your temple keeping you wrapped tight in his arms. You feel safe like nothing could get to you right now.
You stay in his arms for a while, you're not sure for how long but it isn't until he pulls away kissing your forhead you remember he has work still to get to today. "Are you sure you have to go in today?"
He smiles that sweet lopsided grin you love, hugging him tighter at the sight of it.
"Yeah baby I gotta go... but only for a few hours I promise. I'll make sure I make it back soon okay?" He leans in nuzzling his nose with yours before kissing your lips a few times before nipping at your lip pulling away with a smirk.
"You're such a tease." You say with an eye roll as you watch him get up to get dressed. He playfully pouts at you before leaning back over the bed kissing you again before looking down at you.
"Don't act like you don't love it." He teases before heading off to the bathroom. You laugh to yourself as you get up to get ready for the day yourself. Feeling a weight off your shoulders now that you two have talked and came to an understanding. You two truly just need to work on opening up and being more honest with each other. It won't be easy and you won't unlearn every insecurity and bad habit over night but it's a start.
By the time Chris is dressed and ready for work your setting the dishes from breakfast in the sink he comes up wrapping his arm around you from behind. His voice is soft and full of affectionate promise.
"When I get home it'll just be me and you I promise."
He kisses your neck before you turn around in his arms kissing him slowly. Pulling back you look up at him with soft eyes and a nod.
"I'll hold you to it Christopher."
He laughs brightly shaking his head before squeezing you. "C'mon baby I gotta get going but I'll be back soon I promise." You laugh with him following along with him to the front door with a playful pout.
"No pouting baby — he kisses you once, then twice — you won't even notice I'm gone." You roll yours eyes again before kissing him playfully shoving him out the door. He laughs, his eyes crinkled at the corners as his dimples pop out. He leans in one last time for a sweet kiss before pulling back his voice as soft as his eyes. "I love you.. so much." You feel yourself melt under his touch whispering against his lips — "I love you too baby.. more than anything." You can see his eyes get a little brighter at your words before he gives a shy smile heading off now.
Once you say goodbye and close the door behind him you feel lighter than you have in weeks. Like there's been a weight lifted off your chest, your heart. You two talked, you held each other close you can feel the hope bloom between you like a rose bud. You're not scared to see a breaking point between you two - you're just looking forward to spending one day at time with the love of your life.
~
Okay that was the end I hope you all enjoyed. Hopefully the angst was good and it was worth reading to get to the fluff. I don't typically write angst but I was in a mood so here we are. Also the songs I listened to as inspo would've made it much angstier i should've listened again oh well. Thank you for reading please let me know what you thought and if you really liked please do reblog! Okay that's all byeee ily ♡
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
≔ 【 ❤︎ 】 pairing : (emperor) bang chan x (time traveler!lover) female reader
◟ genre : historical, romance, and a bit of angst
◟ word count : 3.1k
⬩➤ 「 warning 」 ᝰ. not proofread
The shift has been made, meaning, the night has just begun. It’s all quiet here, within the palace, oddly so, especially when one comes to realize that there are always hundreds of people scattered around the premises, from the royals to those that serve under them. Compared to that, on the outside, loads of crickets can be heard chirping together while in hiding as a couple of chill, short breezes rustle the full branches of leaves, brushing through the freshly cut grass yards. However, moving past the silence more importantly, the night’s cover has granted you visibility to see something that most would have to wait for until the late hours.
Currently, high up in the sky shows the moon out and about, fully round.
To anyone else, in this time period, the significance of seeing the moon like this is something that should be admired and nothing that needed too much thought be put into it. Yet, to you, the moon’s appearance has an entirely different meaning.
A clear sign.
It’s time for you to go.
You’ve been waiting for this exact moment, this night for ages.
Finally, it has come to this point.
All you’ve been doing is preparing.
Starting from yesterday night to the entire day today, you hid. You’ve essentially barricaded yourself into your room. A large wooden closet and heavy chest was pushed side by side, ensuring the sliding doors would remain shut as planned.
Your actions have certainly caused an uproar for those on the opposite side of your doors. A lot of people grew concerned from those that truly cared for you, such as your maids, befriended concubines, and your lover who just so happens to be the emperor.
A fortunate yet unfortunate blessing to have in your life.
Each and everyone of them came at different times of the day, talking, offering, coaxing you to come out any way they thought would work.
“Please come out, Lady Y/N, we have your favorite desserts?”
“Lady Y/N, we got some brand new books you might be interested in?”
“Come out, please? Everyone’s getting worried.”
Even then, you remained resolute.
At some point, Chan had gotten so frustrated– worried and desperate– that he threatened to have his guards rip your doors off and push past whatever is in his way. In response, crazily, you warned him that you’d jump out of the window if he dares to even try. Disobeying is one thing.
But for someone to challenge the emperor so boldly is a death sentence itself.
Though you’re not a nobody, you’re someone special.
A woman he gave his heart to, the one who set a blaze this intense emotion that was buried by past trauma.
Hearing you say that, your maids and the concubines you befriended all gasped in horror. One by one, each of them knelt down with a painful thud. They all begged him to do nothing rash which was easier said than done. Chan was beyond conflicted as he looked down at everyone then back at your doors.
One, he wanted to see you.
The anchor to his ever spiraling life.
Two, he needed to keep the peace within the palace.
“... Fine.” He huffed out, quickly turning around for the fabric of his clothes to swing.
“W-We’ll be back, okay?” One of the concubines called to you, but you said nothing. “Come on, let’s all go now.”
This is great, it all worked in your favor.
After waiting some time, you waited till it was very late into the afternoon to make your move.
“Now’s the perfect time…” You thought to yourself, walking over to a smaller wooden chest, opening it to reveal a new and different set of clothes. “Time to head out.”
The layers of clothing you had on were slowly stripped away until you changed into this newer set, one a little tighter and better suited to sneak around and blend into the dark.
“All done. Looks good to me.” You mumbled, looking into your mirror as you quietly climbed up your emptied bookshelf.
When you stood on the highest level, your hands pushed away one of the loose ceiling panels for you to squeeze into before starting to follow your marked route. As you reached the dead end, as expected, you stood up to knock out the small false opening on the roof for you to carefully make your way further and further away from the main palace.
That’s where the danger zone really was.
This was all so risky and far too dangerous.
Yet, it’s something you have to do.
Otherwise… who knows what kind of consequences would come to existence.
Your very presence here should have never been.
“Shit!” You whispered, stopping really quick to blend into the shadows as you heard guards patrolling in every corner of the palace.
All it takes is one good look for them to recognize you.
That’s why, this is the only rational way out.
In the midst of your roof hopping journey, you caught sight of an open window.
No big deal right?
Wrong.
In this specific room, lit up by the warm golden glow of many lanterns, stood a tall, muscular, and handsome figure.
“Chan?” You stopped, getting distracted momentarily as you froze to see his empress walk to his side. “... No, what am I doing? I did what I came here for.”
You should have turned, but you didn’t.
You took one last look at him, at the scene unfolding before you.
He stood by the window, facing his empress with a gentle smile, the one that always warmed your heart, to then see him chuckle at something she said to him.
“Come on Y/N?! Get it together! He’s already taken for crying out loud! It was a mistake for me to have ever gotten involved with him.” You thought.
Then back to sneaking out you go.
There were several times where you could have been caught, if not for some very, very lucky coincidences– a guard calling for another, a dog howling late into the night, or a pair of guards on duty falling fast asleep.
“Almost there!” You cheerfully thought, as you see the palace walls getting closer.
Everything was fine until…
“Y/N! Get back here!”
You turned around to have your eyes widened, “C-Chan?”
What is he doing up here?
“Did you hear me? You can get hurt! Come down now!”
You don’t listen to him for the second time, instead opting to make this final goodbye quickly.
“Don’t you dare–!” Chan stopped mid sentence to see you continue running on the tiled roof. “Guards!”
Behind you, you can hear more than a dozen rushed footsteps chasing after you from below as you courageously jumped towards the palace walls. You thankfully made it, hopping off it to rush towards the Serene lake. That’s your key, your ticket out of this place.
The only problem was… it was gone.
“W-What? How?” You stood by the edge, looking at the dried lake.
“Y/N!”
“Dammit!” You started running again, anything to avoid him.
“Y/N!” Chan shouted, unwilling to relent.
You ran so far that you met a dead end of a stone wall, too tall and slippery to climb.
“There you are!” Chan huffs out, drawing closer to you. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Chan listen–”
“No! I’m done listening.” He snapped.
He walks up to you, then without a word, hoists you over his shoulder as if you weighed nothing.
“Chan let me down! Let me go!”
“No! I’m not doing this again. I can’t let you go a second time!”
“Chan please…” You stopped struggling.
“I don’t think you understand Y/N, the first time I let you go was when I realized that everything I ever had and owned meant nothing more than having you by my side. You lit up my dark world.”
“You can find someone else who would do the same, such as the empress.”
“I don’t love her and I never will…”
The words are cutting deep into your mind.
“The woman I love is in my arms, and I can’t allow you to go back to the heavens. Deity or not, I’ll do everything in my power to keep you by my side.”
“You don’t understand what you're doing! This can lead to major consequences!”
As if there weren’t already.
“Then so be it. I’ll stop at nothing to have you be with me, Y/N.” He then lets you down.
“C-Chan?”
You panic, seeing him kneel before you pitifully with tear filled eyes.
“You promised, remember?” He sobbed as you held his head in your hands. “Yet you broke that promise the first time you left. Will you truly fulfill it or is it one of those lies you threw at me.”
“I meant what I said.”
“Then why aren’t you keeping your word?”
“I can’t…”
“What are you hiding from me?”
“I just can’t tell you…”
“There we go again with the secrets. I love you Y/N, I am the emperor of this entire kingdom, anything you ever want and dream of is in my hands, just tell me what you want. I’ll give you everything.”
“I want to be set free.”
“Anything but that.”
“You have to.”
“You’re asking me to do the impossible.”
“Chan–”
“Stay? I beg you, My Love.”
“Your Majesty?!” The guards came over hurryingly. “Is everything okay?”
In the heat of the moment, you said “Everyone look away!”
A direct order all of them followed to save some face and faith everyone had in Chan.
To all that serves the emperor, he is the high and mighty. But to him, he is nothing more than a weak man that has been given strength by your intelligence, kindness, and love.
“Will you stay?” He sniffs.
“I–”
“Yes or no?”
Either way, he wouldn’t be willing to let you go or move from his spot.
“Please don’t lie to me.”
“I-I’ll stay…”
“You mean it?” He asks eagerly, looking into your eyes.
“Yes.”
You might regret this later, but that’s for you to figure out some other time.
“Hey? Come on, let’s get you two back to the palace.” Changbin advised as the guards moved out of his way. “Hyung? Come on.”
Chan said nothing, only looking into your eyes.
“I’ll return with you.”
That’s all he needed to hear.
The walk back took a lot longer as Chan leaned on you for support, dragging his feet as his arms never loosened up around you.
“So… mind telling me what gave you the bright idea to run away in the middle of the night?” Changbin asked curiously, holding a lantern up to light his way ahead.
“I have my reason…” You mumbled.
“Well it better be a good one, otherwise you’re just–”
“What?”
“Stupid.” He shrugged.
“Excuse me?”
“Watch how you speak to her.” Chan reminded with a sharp tone.
“Noted.” Changbin sighed. “See? You have this idiot hooked around your finger, all for what?”
“Freedom.”
“Tsk, still as naive as ever Y/N. Just like the first time I met you.” Changbin chuckled as you all reached the front gates of the palace where a very displeased Minho and worried Jisung stood.
“Care to explain all this?” Minho asked calmly, arms crossed with a judging eyebrow raised.
“We were worried sick, you know?!” Jisung scolded, looking directly at you.
“I’m sorry…”
“As you should! Nearly causing the entire kingdom to fall into ruins…” Minho said to himself as he turned his back at you to walk back into the palace.
“Seriously, Y/N don’t ever do something like that again. We need you here.” Jisung chimed out as he followed Minho.
“Alright, I’ll leave the two of you alone now.” Changbin casually admitted as he ordered all the guards to return to their original posts.
“Let’s go.” Chan simply told you as he guided you back into the main palace.
“Where are we going?”
“Back to my room.”
“B-But?”
“If you’re worried about the empress then think again, she doesn’t care.”
“How do you know?”
“Because this very marriage that is bonded together by force only continues under mutual understanding.” Chan said, as he stood tall to hold your hand better. “She too has a lover, far better hidden than what I can do, for good reason as me being caught is far less scandalous than if it were her.”
“O-Oh? I see…”
“Chan! Y/N!” Hyunjin shouted from the opposite hallway, frantically running towards the two of you with his arms waving in the air. “You’re back!”
“Not by choice.” You thought.
“Silly Y/N.” Hyunjin let out an airy chuckle. “I may be called a fool but you must be a bigger fool.”
“Thanks, I’m so happy to hear that.” You sarcastically remarked with a deadpan stare.
“Glad to have a fellow fool in the palace.” Hyunjin laughed it off as he then looked at Chan. “Relax, Hyung, I’m not trying to steal Y/N away from you, I mean… unless you want me too?”
It was meant to be a joke, clearly.
But Chan was still shaken up by your prior escape.
“Chan! He was joking!” You held onto him as Chan’s gaze hardened.
“Okay… I’ll take my leave now.”
That would be for the best.
You and Chan walked all the way up to his room, where the maids opened the door for the two of you and entered soundly as it was closed behind you.
“Two beds?” You said, looking at Chan.
“The empress and I have never shared a bed.”
“Not even after the ceremony?”
“I’d rather drop dead than sleep with her.”
It sounds like an exaggerative statement but he means it.
“What are you doing?” Chan asked, seeing you walk to the other bed.
“Going to bed?”
“My bed is over here.”
… What?
You were about to say something until you heard a knock at the door.
“Who is it?” Chan questions, trying his best not to sound annoyed.
“It’s us.” Felix nervously responds.
“Come in.”
“How could you even think about leaving us?” Jeongin grumbled behind Felix.
“For once I would have to agree.” Seungmin nodded.
“What went wrong this time?” Felix adds.
“Nothing…”
“Then why do you insist on leaving?”
Just the word itself has Chan balling up his fists tightly.
“Did Hyung do something?” Seungmin asked, sad that he even said it like that.
“No! Of course not!”
“Then tell us, why?” Felix said.
“I just have my reason.”
“Which is?” Jeongin asks.
The pressure was unreal to have all four of them stare at you intensely.
“Let me just…” You walk towards the window and that sets Chan off.
He instinctively grabbed a hold of your wrist, his brain replaying that warning you gave him about jumping out the window.
“No!”
“Chan, relax, I’m only going to the window for some fresh air.” You explained. “Here, you can hold my hand while I do it.”
He lets out a shaky breath as he watches you keenly take three big breaths of air in then out. Then see how your eyes wander up to stare at the moon.
“Is that the reason why?” Felix filled the silence.
“What?” Seungmin questioned.
“The moon…”
“What about it?” Jeongin asked.
“Since the last time, there was also a full moon.” Felix said, recalling that night too.
“I’ll have builders make a roof over the entire palace.” Chan concluded irrationally.
“What? No–”
“If that’s what's going to stop you then so be it.”
“That’s crazy!”
“You’re arguing with someone who has already lost their mind.” Seungmin stated. “We were all so close to losing Hyung last time when you just… disappeared.”
“Don’t even talk about it.”
“Hyung, relax, she’s here and she’s not going anywhere. Right?”
“... Right.”
“I know you’re probably thinking about it. How to get out of here again?” Chan said, looking at you with a pained glare.
“I’m not.”
“Such sweet words that hold an empty promise.” Seungmin remarked.
“What do you want me to say then?”
“Say that you’ll stay. For me, for us.” Chan utters out. “Forget the world where the deities live.”
Sometimes you wonder if you should reveal where you truly come from.
How crazy would it be to tell him you’re from the future and thought of as some sort of deity that randomly spawned into their world.
“Was everything before a lie then?” Jeongin asked.
“Of course not!”
“Then why do you continue spitting lies like you breathe in air?”
“Innie, that’s not a fair question.”
“Life isn’t fair. Nothing is fair in this universe unless you have power, wealth, and status.” Felix adds. “You have all of it, right here, right now with Hyung. What more can someone ask for?”
“You keep saying there could be consequences to all of this… but what are they exactly?” Seungmin asks. “How does an emperor loving a woman make a big difference? Hyung will be remembered no differently than all the previous emperors before him.”
He’s right in a way.
“As long as Hyung is the head of the kingdom and you’re there with him, nothing can ever go wrong.”
How sweet of Felix to believe that…
“This won’t last forever…”
“And you know because?”
“Minnie, it just won’t. Our life spans are short.”
Even shorter in this era that you would very much like to add.
“Heh, as if mankind hasn't found that out.” Jeongin dryly chuckled.
“Take me then…” Chan boldly said.
“What?”
“If you won’t stay here then I’ll go with you, anywhere as long as you’re there.”
“That’s not going to work.”
“Then stay.”
“You’re really not going to let me make a compromise?”
“There’s nothing we can compromise here. Either you stay or I go.”
“Give it up, Noona.” Felix sighed. “He’ll win the argument any way he can.”
“I can see that.” You sighed as you looked at all of them. “It’s getting late, why don’t all of you go to bed?”
“We aren’t kids.” Jeongin grumbled.
“Go.” Chan said.
And go they did.
“What now?” You ask him as he guides you to his bed.
He tucks you in first before joining you. The two of you lay on your sides, facing each other as he raised his hand to caress your cheek while a longing look stayed glazed in his eyes.
“You made a promise, now keep it…”
After that, things fell silent. Not forced, just something that naturally came. You stared into his eyes as he did into yours.
“You are my whole world.” is what his eyes are telling you if not made clear by your previous visit.
“Sleep…” He said softly as he wrapped his arm around you to bring you closer to him.
The warmth of his body against yours was soothing, comforting to allow your body to relax as you found yourself blinking a couple of times before ultimately falling asleep.
“Please stay with me.” He mumbled as he glanced at you fast asleep. “Don’t make me think this is another dream.”
warnings: smut | sub x dom | mommy kink (chan) | daddy kink (you) | begging | foreplay | chan x fem reader | aftercare!
summary: chan is tired and overworked. so you decide to look after him and be the dom. but when you beg him during foreplay, he switches the roles and things get heated!
FINALLY PROOF READ 😛🤟(kinda, i guarantee inaccuracies;))
Every now and again, Chan needs to be babied. I mean seriously? He looks after 7 kids, works overtime in the studio, and never truly has a moment for himself. That’s why he loves you, not just because you’re a great partner but because you always look after him. When he’s burnt out, you refuel him. Kisses? Cuddles? Cooking? Whatever he needs, you provide.
This evening, he’s especially needy. Sometimes in the bedroom, he needs you to take control. Let him be the sub/pillow prince for once.
This evening, he’s especially needy.
He’s a whimpering mess. He’s sitting at the edge of the bed while you stroke him, while you’re kneeling. His lips are swollen. His tip is pink and slightly glossy from the precum beads being spread around his surface
“F-fuck mommy, you’re so, so good. I love when you do this to me”, he whimpers.
You smile against the skin of his neck before marking it with love bites that will definitely be visible tomorrow. You can feel that he’s about to cum. His body is twitching violently, his knuckles are white and clenching the duvet, and his lips are parted and puffy.
Just then, you stop, earning a dissatisfied huff from Chan.
You crawl onto the bed. When you’re fully on it, you turn to face him, his needy eyes taking in every curve of your body. You press your foot against his chest before shoving him onto his knees on the floor.
“I know you want me baby. You’ve been thinking about it all day, haven’t you?”, you tease. “If you eat me out, I’ll give you everything you want m’kay?”
He nods eagerly, rising to lean on the bed. His veiny hands snake around your thighs before he violently pulls you towards him so that your warmth is flush against his core. He eats you out gracefully. Alternating between long licks and kisses between your folds and short, sensual flicks of your clit before sucking on it. He loves it, you love it.
“Mmm, you’re such a good boy for me, baby. You’re making mommy feel so good. You’re such a good boy. Keep doing that and I’ll give you everything”, you reassure.
Every now and again, his eyes dart up to yours, looking at you for approval. “Am I doing a good job, mommy? You taste so good. I love making you mine, all mine. Only I get to taste this right? Tell me I’m your good boy. Need to hear it please”
“Mmm, you’re such a good boy for me, baby. You’re making mommy feel so good. You’re such a good boy. Keep doing that and I’ll give you everything”, you reassure.
Moments later, you feel your orgasm coming. All you can do is let your fingers grip his short blonde locs as best as you can.
“F-fuck Channie, let me cum please. I’ll do so well for you”, you beg.
Let? Let you? Hmm.
“Beg for it.”
“What?”
“I said beg for it. You want me to let you cum? Then beg for it. Daddy will make you feel good after that, princess.”
That was it. The jig is up. He’s in charge now.
Your orgasm crashed into you. Your back arched off the mattress. Your voice is calling out Chan’s name like it’s all you know.
“Such a good girl for me baby. You did so so well. You looked after me perfectly. Now let daddy return the favor hmm?”
Before you could even respond, he grabs you by your hips and flips you all fours.
“Channie! Wha-“
Before you could finish your question, he slides into you with one fluid thrust. You cry out, back arching, face buried into the pillows, with muffled moans. He pulls you up gently by your hair. Forcing you to face the headboard.
“Uh uh, don’t hide those pretty noises. I want everyone in this neighborhood to know who’s making you feel this good. Say my name, y/n”
“Ch-Chris. It’s Ch-Chris.”
“That’s not it and you know it”, he growls into your ear as he leans down.
“You. You’re making me feel so good daddy. Pl-please let me cum on you. Let me show you how much I love you. How much I belong to you.”, you beg. Pathetically, might I add.
Just as you're about to cum, he pulls out swiftly and flips you onto your back.
“I wanna see my babygirl’s pretty face when she cums. Wanna see how good I make her feel.”, he states.
You’re a shy mess. Staring into his eyes that are dark with lust, you babble incoherent noises. He then leans down to kiss you. The kiss is sloppy but gentle. You can taste remnants of your first orgasm on his tongue -it’s the hottest thing ever.
Then. Your high hits you. Your back arches again. You grab onto his veiny arms. Your eyes shut.
“Oh f-fuck daddy. You make me feel so good. I love being your babygirl. Always use me like this please, Channie.”
He pulls out. “Channie? What happened to Chris?” he teases.
“Oh shut up.” are the only three words you can get out before he scoops you up and carries you to the bathroom, placing you on the counter whilst running your warm bath.
“C’mere baby, let me take care of you”, he says, motioning you to join him in the hot but soothing water.
“You did so well for me, babygirl. So perfect for me always. I love you y/n”
main masterlist | part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 [ status : on hiatus ]
˗ˏˋ even though the heiress of the royal family is expected to find a suitor the only thing on her mind is her hot sworn knight ˎˊ˗
⤷ contains : knight! bang chan x fem! princess! reader, medieval au, slight age gap NSFW -> erotic book mention, f! masturbation, m! masturbation, virginity loss, p in v sex, unprotected sex [ wc : 6.2k ]
⤷ now playing : the first time by damiano david
The ballroom shimmered in a whirl of gold and purple, where nobles glided across the marble floor in cascades of silk and velvet. Laughter mingled with the faint echo of violins as chandeliers dripped light over jewels and powdered faces. The scent of roasted pheasant and spiced wine lingered in the air after the grand feast held to honor the king and queen of the Velaria kingdom on their wedding anniversary, a union once forged for diplomacy, yet remembered now as the cornerstone of decades of peace.
Under their miraculous reign, the land prospered—no wars, fertile fields, flourishing trade. The people adored my parents and, to my fortune, me as well. But as my twenty-second spring approached, admiration began to twist into expectation.
Whispers grew louder with every passing season—when would the princess of Velaria finally choose a suitor? My parents, gracious as they were, did not press me into marriage. There were no treaties to seal, no bloodlines to mend, no desperate need for alliances. Yet the court—restless, gossipy, hungry for spectacle—counted the days as if my heart’s decision were a royal decree waiting to be signed.
Tonight was no different. As another nameless young lord murmured empty flattery at my ear, I slipped quietly away, leaving the laughter and candlelight behind. The music faded to a distant hum as I wandered through the quieter halls of the castle, where torchlight flickered across stone and the air still smelled faintly of lavender.
When, a sound, soft and breathless, broke the stillness. In the shadow of an alcove, a couple was entangled in a secret embrace. The woman’s jeweled hairpin glinted as she leaned into her lover’s arms, until the moment he noticed me watching. With a startled grunt, he shoved her back, his face blanching.
Lady Alyna merely sighed, annoyed, and cast me a knowing glance. “That’s just my cousin, you fool,” she scolded the man with airy disdain. “She knows about us. Go back to the ball before someone who doesn’t finds you.”
With a huff, she smoothed her gown and looped her arm through mine as though nothing had happened.
“Someone is going to catch you two one of these days,” I murmured, keeping my voice low. Only the faint howl of the hounds beyond the open window bore witness to our conversation.
“Let them,” a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “My husband keeps a mistress of his own. We all play our parts in the court, dear cousin.”
“And people still say that marriage is a respectable union.” I mumbled, getting her to giggle under her breath.
She led me down the corridor toward the guest chambers she was occupying. As we entered, she turned to me with that same teasing grin that always seemed to promise trouble. “Lord Damian couldn’t take his eyes off you tonight.”
I nudged her shoulder and dropped into the cushioned seat beside the window, the winds of winter slipping chill and crisp against my skin. “I don’t like him,” I said, allowing a smirk to tug at my lips. “He’s an arrogant boy who thinks I should be grateful to breathe the same air he does simply because he owns half the southeastern lands.”
“So you did your homework.” Alyna stretched across the bed, her laughter lilting and light. “Indeed he is a bit insufferable,” she conceded, “but you’re always so sure about the ones you dislike. The way you talk, it almost sounds as though someone has already won your heart.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks before I could stop it. I opened my mouth to deny it, to conjure some witty retort, but no words came. Only a frustrated sigh escaped me as I turned toward the window, pouting like a scolded child.
“Oh, don’t sulk,” Alyna said, her tone softening, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Tell me—who is this lucky man who’s managed to make the princess of Velaria lose her composure and reject every lord she ever met?”
I hesitated. My voice came barely above a whisper. “... Christopher.”
Her brows knit in confusion. “Christopher? I don’t recall any lord by that name.” Then her eyes widened, a wicked teasing grin spreading across her face. “Oh. Oh! Perhaps you mean your Sir Christopher?”
Sir Christopher had been my sworn knight since my eighteenth birthday, when old Sir Barristan—faithful and kind as a second father—had taken ill and retired from service. For years, Barristan had guarded me with steady devotion, teaching me the small graces of courage and restraint, his eyes ever gentle and familial. But when Christopher took his place, everything changed.
He was younger, stronger, his frame carved like the statues that stood in the Hall of Velaria, broad-shouldered and steady as oak. His voice carried that quiet gravity of command, and when he looked at me—gods, when he looked at me—it felt as if the world stilled for half a breath. He was perhaps six years my elder, just enough to make him impossibly unreachable and far too handsome for my peace of mind.
I told myself he was only a protector. A knight sworn to his oath. Yet whenever he brushed my arm in passing, or offered his hand as I dismounted my mare, the thought of him lingered long into the night and my mind wandered into my own dreams of living a chivalric romance.
Alyna laughed softly, breaking my reverie. “Ah, so that’s the storm in your head,” she teased. “Fair enough, cousin. I understand your struggle. He’s a man worthy of many sighs. But be warned—you’re hardly the only one enchanted by him. Half the ladies of court have already spun dreams of Sir Christopher, even the maids bat their lashes when he walks by. Tell me, dear Princess, would you even know what to do with a man like that?”
“Stop it.” I buried my burning face against a velvet cushion, clutching it to my chest as if it could smother both her laughter and my own flustered thoughts.
“Where are your manners, cousin?” Alyna laughed, still amused. “Don't fret, I have just the thing for you.”
She rummaged through one of her travel chests until she produced a small leather-bound book, its cover a deep, sultry red. No gilded title, no intricate embossing—only smooth, aged leather that seemed to hum with secrets.
“What’s this?” I asked, hesitating as I took it.
“Education,” she said slyly, eyes sparkling with mischief.
I mindlessly flipped through the yellowed pages and stopped cold at an illustration—a man, bare as the dawn, reclining upon a stone with a lyre in hand, his body shamelessly drawn in vivid detail, especially his stiff member that rested on his stomach like a sword. Hidden behind the painted trees, a nymph peeked out, her expression one of unholy curiosity.
My face flamed hot enough to rival the hearth. I snapped the book shut, holding it as though it might burn me. Alyna only burst into laughter, her voice echoing through the room.
“You’ve never seen one before?” she gasped between giggles. I shook my head mutely.
“Oh, you innocent creature,” she teased. “Take it to your room, then. Keep it hidden, mind you—no one must find it. But read it, learn from it. You’re clever enough to understand more than words can teach. And most of all—enjoy yourself. Curiosity is nothing to be ashamed of.”
I could hardly meet her gaze. My heart drummed so fast it seemed to flutter in my throat. Mumbling something unintelligible, I clutched the little red book and hurried out before her laughter faded into the night.
The corridors were dim, the air heavy with the scent of melted wax. My slippered feet brushed against the cool stone floors as I made my way toward my chambers, head spinning from the wine and Alyna’s wicked words.
Until my shoulder struck something firm, and I stumbled back, barely catching my balance. Two strong hands steadied me, their touch gentle yet unyielding. I looked up—straight into Christopher’s eyes.
Moonlight through the high window carved silver along his jaw and the edges of his armor. Concern flickered there, tender and sharp all at once.
“Are you hurt, Princess?” His voice was low, careful, as though the night itself might overhear. “Forgive me—I didn’t know it was you. I thought you’d already retired.”
“I was… speaking with Lady Alyna,” I managed, my words clumsy, my breath caught somewhere between embarrassment and awe.
He nodded, and his gaze dropped briefly to the floor, where the red book had fallen open.
My stomach lurched. Before he could even bend to retrieve it, I darted down and snatched it up, pressing it tightly to my chest.
He blinked, puzzled, a faint smile curving his mouth. “Another romance?” he asked, his tone light, teasing. “Will you read it to me, as you did the last one?”
“Maybe,” I said quickly, clutching it tighter still. “But only after I’ve finished it.”
He chuckled softly, and the sound was warm enough to melt through my nerves. “Then I’ll be waiting. Sleep well, Princess.”
He bowed slightly, his eyes lingering for one heartbeat longer than courtesy demanded, before turning down the corridor and vanishing into shadow. And I stood there alone, the echo of his footsteps fading, the little red book heavy in my arms like a secret I could never confess.
—
Days began to blur together beneath the hush of candlelight and ink. Each night I returned to that little red book like a sinner to confession—its pages heavy with secrets, its words tasting of honey and sin. One tale became two, then ten, until I knew every verse by heart. The stories grew roots inside me, twining through thought and breath alike, until even the gentle turn of parchment set my pulse racing.
It was becoming an addiction, those forbidden words adorned with images that painted my imagination in shades of heat and gold. I had read of knights and their ladies before, of gallantry and virtue, yet never had I seen passion rendered with such raw beauty, such perilous truth.
And now, when I looked upon my knight, I could no longer see him as I had before.
Sir Christopher—ever patient and kind. His smile came easily, his laughter softer than any man-at-arms I’d known. Yet now each time he took my hand to guide me down the stairway, each time he lifted me to my saddle or brushed a loose strand of hair from my shoulder, I felt those stories stirring to life beneath my skin. When the moonlight spilled across my sheets at night, I remembered every page I’d turned, every sin I’d dared to imagine—until my own sighs drowned in the silence of my room.
Every other afternoon I found an excuse to linger on the castle terrace that overlooked the training yard. Below, the clamor of steel on steel echoed like a song of past wars. The knights moved as one—blades flashing, boots grinding dust—but my eyes sought only him.
Christopher fought with the precision of a hawk, sharp and fluid, his dark hair plastered to his brow, the white of his shirt clinging to his chest. He laughed with his comrades after each bout, sweat tracing the strong lines of his throat. I should have turned away, but my gaze clung into him like ivy.
A maid passed nearby, a girl known for her charms and lack of subtlety. She carried a basket of linen, her bodice straining at the seams, and when she saw him she let out a teasing whistle.
“Getting sweaty again, Sir Christopher,” she called, voice lilting. “You’re giving me too much work with those shirts. Train without one next time, spare me the trouble!”
He chuckled, bashful and kind as ever, shaking his head as the others laughed, but something inside me burned.
Not the soft warmth I’d felt reading Alyna’s book, but a sharp, jealous fire—hot and merciless. It coiled in my chest, in my fingertips, even in the quickening of my breath. Before I realized what I was doing, I was walking down the steps into the training yard, the hem of my gown catching all kinds of dust and mud.
He was bent over a water barrel when I reached him, scooping a handful to his face, droplets slipping down his neck, catching the light before vanishing into the linen clinging to his chest. He straightened when he saw me, surprised.
“Your Highness,” he said with a quick bow, still breathless from the exertion.
I looked at the sword at his hip, the steel glinting faintly in the sun, and before thought could temper me, the words slipped out. “May I… touch it?”
His brows raised and knit in confusion. “The sword, Princess?” he asked, half-smiling. “It’s far too heavy for you. You might hurt yourself.”
“Can’t you help me hold it?” My voice betrayed me, softer than I intended.
A faint blush touched his cheek. “I don’t think I should get too close,” he murmured, glancing down at his sweat-soaked shirt.
“Please,” I said. Just one word, quiet, trembling.
He hesitated, only for a breath, then drew the blade and placed it in my hands.
The weight startled me. My fingers barely fit around the hilt, and before I could adjust, he stepped behind me, his arms encircling mine, large hands folding over my own. The scent of iron and his damp skin filled the space between us.
“Like this,” he said near my ear, guiding my wrists in a smooth arc through the air. The blade gleamed as it turned, and his chest pressed faintly to my back with each movement. His breath brushed my neck, slow and steady.
My heartbeat roared. Every muscle in my body was aware of his—the warmth of him, the steadiness, the strength. And then, in one fragile instant, I felt something else—firm, undeniable, the shape of a man standing too close.
I froze. He did too.
His grip faltered. The sword dipped slightly in my grasp. Silence fell heavy between us, broken only by the faint murmur of the wind and my own unsteady breath.
“I think…” he said at last, voice rougher than before, “that’s enough for today.”
He took the sword gently from my hands, careful not to meet my eyes, and turned away so quickly I might have imagined it. “Forgive me, Princess. I have duties to attend.”
Before I could speak, he was already walking toward the armory, his steps quick, the line of his shoulders tense. There I stood, alone in the yard, my pulse still racing, the cold sun pressing against my skin. The faint imprint of his hands lingered around mine—ghostly, electric. But beneath the calm facade I forced upon myself, a new, dangerous fire smoldered low within me, hotter and more alive than any dream could conjure.
—
Christopher sat alone in the washroom as most of the castle had gone still in supper time. The torches in the corridor outside hissed and guttered, throwing restless light across the floor. He removed his tunic, throwing it on a basket, damp with sweat from the day’s training, carrying the faint scent of dust and steel.
He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture sharp, almost angry, while he ran a bath before the shifts changed and he would stand his post through the night on the princess’ door. It should have been nothing. He’d trained noble's daughters before—taught them the grip, the stance, the balance. But never her. Not when she looked at him with those wide, uncertain eyes that seemed to see through every wall of restraint he’d built since swearing his oath.
“Fool,” he muttered under his breath. His own voice startled him. “Utter fool.”
He leaned forward, washing the tight knots of tension from his shoulder with warm water while staring at the narrow window where the moonlight pooled like silver milk on the stone. The night air carried the faint scent of lavender from the gardens around. It should have calmed him, instead it brought her to mind again—her perfume, that hint of sweetness when she leaned closer.
It was making him lose his mind, even though he could not allow himself to get distracted. He tried to focus on the higher results of his oath—protecting the royal family, securing the safety of the princess herself—what higher honor could exist? But she wasn't a shy eighteen years old girl anymore, without him even noticing the princess grew into a beautiful and kind young woman. With a smile that enchanted the entire kingdom, her grace made even the toughest knight get flustered behind his helmet, and he was doubting his own self control
He rose from the bath, wrapping a towel loosely about his waist, droplets still tracing the lines of his chest. For a moment he simply stood there, watching the moonlight slide across his armor, its cold silver gleam a reminder of everything he was supposed to be. A protector. A shield. Nothing more.
He sat lazily on a chair, muscles still damp, and stared up at the ceiling. Yet the darkness only made the images sharper—the way her breath had caught when he stood behind her, the slight tremor on her shoulders, the quiet gasp when she felt him growing behind her.
A slow, consuming warmth spread through him, the same fire that came every night now, as unstoppable as tide against stone. He pressed the heel of his palm against his brow, trying to wield it away, to think of anything but her voice, her scent, her touch. But the body is a creature that does not obey vows, as his palm was already wrapped around his throbbing length. Just once, he kept repeating inside, just this time, but with every thoughtful stroke, every sloppy movement of his hips, his hand gripped tighter, moved faster, when at last a broken moan quietly escaped his lips.
His chest rose erratically, sticky hands resting shamefully on his thigh. When at last he rose, the air felt colder against his skin. He washed himself again, dressed, and buckled on his armor piece by piece until every trace of weakness was hidden beneath iron and leather.
Yet as he walked the moonlit corridors toward her door, the echo of that forbidden heat lingered in him still, a pulse that refused to fade. He took his place outside her chamber, sword at his hip, eyes fixed on the dark hallway ahead. But the scent of lavender drifted from beneath her door, sweet and faint as memory, and he wondered how long he could endure guarding what his heart had already begun to betray.
—
The late winter air was crisp still, but few flowers were already getting ready to bloom. Lanterns hung warmly from wrought-iron hooks, their faint glow gilding the hedges and fountains in amber. Crickets trilled among the grass, and beyond the stone archway the castle slept, its towers lost in mist.
Caught in another sleepless night, where not even the strongest lavender scent could lure me into slumber. I then decided to take a walk in the gardens accompanied by Sir Christopher, after he thoroughly convinced me he ought to escort me. We walked along the narrow gravel path, our steps soft and uncertain. The wine from dinner still warmed my blood, but the quiet between us felt thicker than usual—full of something unspoken.
At last I broke it. “Have you ever…” My voice faltered, and I caught my breath before finishing. “Have you ever kissed a lady, Sir Christopher?”
He slowed, turning his head toward me, moonlight painting silver along the line of his jaw. “Like in your chivalric romances, Your Highness?” A faint smile ghosted across his lips. “Yes. A few times.”
My heart gave a strange flutter. “And have you ever…” I hesitated again, eyes fixed on the path ahead. “Been intimate with a lady before?”
He stopped. The night held its breath. “I beg your pardon?” His tone was polite, but his confusion was palpable. “As in—” He rubbed the back of his neck, voice dropping low. “Forgive me, Princess, I don’t think I quite follow. Where—how did you come to ask me such a thing?”
I looked away quickly, the heat in my cheeks betraying me. “Forget about it.”
But he took a step closer, his brow furrowing. “Is it from that book you carry everywhere now? The one I see you reading in the gardens, even during lessons? Where did you find it?”
“Nowhere,” I said too quickly, “it's none of your concern.”
“It is when it’s kept a secret.” His voice softened, a bit stern in tone, but still touched with concern. “You still haven’t told me what it’s about. Did someone give it to you?”
“Lady Alyna did.”
He groaned quietly, a bit of amusement and dread. “Lady Alyna—oh, by the gods.” He dragged a hand across his face, then muttered, “I can already imagine what kind of tales are bound between those covers.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, fingers twisting in the fabric of my gown. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I was only… curious.”
He exhaled slowly, as though steadying himself, a moment passed in silence before he finally said something. “Yes,” his voice came low and quiet, “I have been with women… before I took my oath.”
The admission hung between us, raw and simple. Women. The garden seemed to grow smaller around us. I swallowed hard, trying to bury down the envy that grew inside my chest. “How does it feel?”
His gaze darted to mine, then away again. “Princess…” he began, voice low and strained, “I really shouldn’t be having this conversation with you.” He stepped back, the gravel crunching beneath his boot. “When I swore my vow as your knight, I promised not only to protect you from harm, but to preserve your honor until a man worthy of you claims your hand.”
I tried to smile, though my heart pounded. “Will you tell my mother about this conversation?”
That drew a short laugh from him, breathless and helpless. “If I did, I’d lose my post before sunrise. And neither of us wants that, do we?” I shook my head, the smallest smile tugging at my lips.
He studied me for a long moment, his expression softening, then said quietly, “If you truly wish to know… imagine the moment a horse leaps a fence, and for a heartbeat you’re weightless—the world beneath you falls away, your stomach twists, and then you land again, full of adrenaline, out of breath. That… that’s what it feels like.”
I stood still, the air trembling between us. “It sounds… exciting.”
“It is,” he whispered, taking a step closer to me. Then, after a heartbeat “but dangerous too.”
The spell broke as a bell tolled faintly from the distant courtyard. He glanced toward the castle, his composure snapping back like armor sliding into place. “We must go back, Princess. It’s late.”
I nodded, though my feet felt heavy with reluctance. As we walked, the night pressed close around us, fragrant with lavender and secrets. Neither of us spoke again—but in the hush that followed, I could feel his restraint like a living thing, and beneath it, something even stronger that neither of us dared to name.
—
Like a breath of fresh air, spring began and with every passing day the world seemed to stir from slumber—buds unfurling, birds returning, sunlight lingering longer on the stone towers. Yet within me, the slow turning of seasons only made the ache more unbearable. What had begun as quiet admiration had grown into a fever that no prayer nor confession could quell. It climbed through me like ivy, delicate yet relentless, its roots sinking deeper with every glance and brush of his hand.
That morning dawned chill, the air still carrying winter’s last breath. Dew silvered the grass, and the first flowers trembled awake beneath it. But inside me, there was only heat—an unholy warmth coiling low, a hunger that left my skin flushed and my pulse too loud to ignore. The mirror betrayed me, my cheeks were pink, brow beaded with fine drops of sweat, fevered gaze glossing my eyes.
I needed the open air, the cool kiss of running water. Away from the castle, away from him, and from all the thoughts that made me burn.
I slipped quietly through the halls, hidden beneath the hood of my cloak, passing unnoticed through the guard post as the shifts changed. Sir Christopher should be elsewhere—training, perhaps, or tending to his reports. Finally my bare feet found the forest path, I could feel the grass between my toes, and something inside me broke loose. I ran, laughing softly to myself, through the veil of trees where no one called me princess or your highness, where I was no one but a girl set free for a single heartbeat of her life.
The stream waited at the edge of the woods, its voice gentle and cool. I stepped in, the chill biting at my skin, the mud curling lovingly between my toes. But even as the water lapped at my ankles, the fever within refused to fade. I shed my outer dress and waded deeper, the white of my chemise clinging to me like mist. The current curled around me, soothing and relentless, as I lowered myself onto the smooth rocks and let the stream flow over my shoulders.
The cold dulled my thoughts—but only for a breath. Soon, memory returned like a pulse under the skin. His face. His hands. The way his eyes softened when he looked at me, how his voice gentled when he said my name. Every moment became a spark against the rawness of my body. My fingers betrayed me, traveling all the way down my thighs, tracing small circles on my needy core, chasing that sweet ache that had haunted me every night.
“Christopher…” I breathed his name, not knowing if it was prayer or curse. My hips shifted, my legs trembled, the water rippled around me. The world spun as the sky above darkened to violet, my pulse loud as thunder in my ears—
“Your Highness!”
The voice struck through my reverie like lightning. I blinked, dazed, the world tilting in slow motion. A shadow loomed at the edge of the trees. Sir Christopher was there, his white horse pawing the grass behind him, his face a mixture of relief and horror.
“What are you doing out here at this hour?” he demanded, vaulting off his horse. His boots splashed through the stream as he came toward me. “And dressed like this?”
I looked down and realized the soaked silk clinging to every curve of me, the pale fabric turned to near transparency in the sunlight. He turned his face sharply aside, jaw tight, his ears flushed crimson. “By the gods, Princess—everyone is searching for you. Have you lost your senses?”
“I—I only needed air…” I managed, but the world was already dimming again, the trees melting into shadow. My knees buckled beneath me and the last thing I felt was the strength of his arms catching me before I hit the ground.
The rest came in fragments. The rhythm of hooves on the dirt road. The heavy thud of his heartbeat against my ear as he carried me. The warmth of his cloak wrapped around me, smelling of steel and pine.
Voices rose and fell when he brought me inside—my mother’s fretful tones, the stern murmur of the physician, the flutter of maids stripping away my drenched clothes and piling furs over me. The fever made the world swim in colors and whispers. I drifted in and out, my body shaking, until at last all I could feel was heat—his heat, his touch still ghosting over my skin—and I surrendered to sleep once again.
Hours later, the silver moonlight flooded the floor of my room, a glow bright as the warm sun, I tossed and turned, whimpering quietly at how sensitive my feverish skin still felt under the covers. It was all meaningless, my fingers ached to slide lower, tugging at the hem of my nightgown, spreading the growing wetness of my folds all over my inner thighs.
Soft moans and whimpers merged into the night and floated all the way through the other side of the door, where Sir Christopher’s alert senses noticed the strange noises coming from inside. Worried he knocked once, twice, and at last entered the room cautiously.
“Is everything all right, Princess? I heard noises from within.” The low timbre of his voice rippled through me, steady and deep, sending a shiver down my spine as my fingers hesitated.
“I—I’m fine. Truly,” I managed, though the tremor in my words betrayed me.
He stepped closer, the dim light catching the edge of his armor as he knelt beside my bed, his brow creased in concern. “Heavens—your skin’s burning. You’re drenched in sweat again. I’ll fetch the physician.”
He began to rise, but before he could take another step, my hand found his wrist. The touch was desperate, trembling, my gaze lifting to meet his with silent plea, my eyes bright as if on the verge of tears—or perhaps desire.
“Please Christopher… I need you.” His muscles tensed under my grasp, eyes widening upon the realization of what I meant. Every piece of this forbidden puzzle falling into place right before him. He faltered for a moment, a silent battle of duty and desire being fought inside him, until I slowly kneeled in the mattress and brushed my lips against his.
His rough hands trembled, hesitantly cradling the back of my head, tangling his fingers in my hair. He deepened the kiss, as if trying to drown any protest that might emerge from his own throat. My hand rested on the metal plates of his armor, and when we finally separated, breathless and flushed, he slowly peeled the armor away, laying his heavy burden gently to the side.
After he took off his linen shirt, I could finally see the carved muscles of his chest and the sculpted lines of his stomach, which trailed all the way down to the growing volume under the thin fabric. Wordlessly he lowered his underpants, which were already straining at the seams. His length hung heavy in the air, just like the ones in Alyna's book. My face quickly flushed, and a gasp caught in my throat.
“Is it going to…?” My voice was barely a whisper. I knew then that everything I understood was based only on a book, a concept vastly different from the reality before me.
“I’ll be gentle.” His soft touch lifted my face, making me gaze into his eyes. “If it becomes too much, just say the world.”
He positioned his body over mine and began to slowly slide himself into my wet folds. The stretching brought a sharp, intense discomfort, and my lungs seemed to empty of air as I gasped for breath. He paused to soothe me, caressing my inner thighs to open me, like a flower bulb blooming in spring. Then, he sank in again.
“It… hurts.” A small, pained moan escaped me.
“I know” He traced soft kisses all the way up from my neck to my lips. “You’re doing so well, Princess. Just a little bit more.”
I clung to his broad shoulder, feeling him completely take over me, a warmth that spread deep in my lower belly. The ache lingered, but with each thrust of his hips, each kiss planted on my neck, each suck of his mouth on my breasts, it began to dissolve. I felt his muscles tensing and releasing beneath my palm, his soft groans mixing with my moans, the way he seemed to fight his surrender yet still sink deeper into the act.
His touch burned like fire on my skin, the cool wind from outside made our sweat-covered bodies shiver. His movements grew less controlled, and I felt myself clenching tighter around him, until something broke in both of us—a powerful, heavenly release. With trembling bodies, we rode the high, wishing never to come down. Until I finally rested, breathless, with my head heavy on his chest while he drew absent patterns on my back, holding me close as if his duty had never truly left him.
“Do you ever wish,” I began slowly, “that you were not sworn to anyone? That you could just be… yourself?” He looked down, a faint smile ghosting his lips. “I think every man dreams of freedom. But vows are what make us who we are.”
“And what if those vows keep you from what your heart wants most?”
His eyes were still locked with mine, and for a heartbeat neither of us breathed. “Unfortunately,” he said softly, “a man must learn to live with his longings.”
The words struck something deep in me—a quiet, aching truth. I reached out to his face, brushing the edge of his jaw, still he leaned into my touch with a bittersweet gaze. My lips found his under the dark cloak of the night. The forbidden graze between two secret lovers, and this time he didn’t pull away.
—
The morning light crept softly through the silk curtains, spreading across my chamber walls in strokes of gold. My eyes fluttered open to the hush of birdsong and the pale warmth of dawn. For a moment I smiled, until my hand brushed against the sheets and found the cool vacant space where another body had been.
He was gone. Of course he was. A knight had his duties, dawn patrols and court summons, a world of discipline beyond the one night we had stolen. Still, the emptiness beside me ached in a quiet, foolish, almost naive way.
Yet something new lay on my bedside table, a small bundle of lavenders from the royal gardens, dew still caught in their petals. Their scent lingered in the room like a whisper, I reached toward them just as the door burst open.
Two maids entered hurriedly—one older, brisk as ever, and a younger one tripping at her heels. I gasped and clutched the fur coverlet to my bare chest.
“Princess!” the elder cried. “What are you doing under all those blankets? It’s boiling out there, you’ll melt! Are you still feeling feverish?”
“I—perhaps a little,” I stammered.
“Oh, heavens. You should have asked to see the physicians at night! Sir Christopher could have fetched them himself.” She came bustling forward, pulling at the covers. “Come, let me run a herb bath to draw out the heat.”
Before I could protest she had me half out of bed, still wrapped around the covers, steering me toward the washroom. The younger maid lingered behind, frowning at the tangled sheets. “Your Highness,” she said hesitantly, “there’s a white stain...”
“Leave it!” I called over my shoulder, but the elder only tightened her grip on my arm.
“You’re limping,” she said, voice full of concern. “This fever must have weakened you badly. I’ll summon the physician at once.”
“No!” I blurted, too quickly. “No need—I’m feeling perfectly fine.” The bathwater steamed as I slipped into it, thankful for the refuge of its clouded surface. I forced a calm smile while the elder fetched towels.
“How strange,” she mused. “I didn’t see Sir Christopher at his post this morning. He never leaves your door before you’ve broken your fast.”
“Perhaps he was called to the stables,” I mumbled shyly, keeping my eyes fixed on the rippling water.
She made a noncommittal hum and began to pour rosewater into the tub. “Let’s see that color in your cheeks.” Her gaze drifted downward, and suddenly her hands stilled. “What in the name of mercy—”
I followed her look and felt the blood drain from my face. Three small bruises bloomed like wine-colored petals against my breasts.
Before she could speak, the younger maid appeared at the doorway clutching the sheets to her chest, her expression caught between surprise and dawning understanding. The elder turned from her to me, back again, and realization slowly unfolded across her aged features.
“Please, don’t say anything.” I whispered, sinking my body in the water until it graced my chin. It was all I could manage as my mother suddenly swept into the washroom. “What is all this commotion? Why are there no sheets on her bed? Why is she in the bath?”
The elder maid recovered with the speed of a seasoned servant. “The Princess sweated through them, Your Majesty. Seems she’s broken her spring fever at last.”
Mother’s worried frown softened. “Ah, good. Still, no rides today, my dear. Rest, light reading—nothing demanding.”
“Yes, Mother,” I murmured.
She nodded, already satisfied, and left with the younger maid following close behind, sheets bundled like evidence. The door shut, leaving only the elder and me amid the rising scent of herbs and steam.
She laid a steady hand on my shoulder. “Oh, child,” she said softly, a trace of fondness hiding in her voice. “Time moves quicker than any of us reckon. I turned my back for a season and you’ve gone and become a young woman.”
Her touch lingered a moment longer, then she turned to fetch clean linens. I laid my head on the border of the tub, staring at the bouquet on the nightstand through the open door. The lavenders caught the morning sun, their lilac color glowing like a secret too beautiful—and too dangerous—to speak aloud.
CW: dom/sub, slight bdsm, edging, teasing, pet names, oral (m receiving), overstimulation, unprotected pinv (don’t do it), this is straight porn y’all!
synopsis: there’s something you’d like to try with Chan, and he tells you yes, just this once.
word count: 2,428
note: inspired by chan doing this 🙏🏻 and saying please at the dominate celebrate concert. i’m feral, I apologize. figured i’d be nice & post it a day earlier than i intended since it’s short & already done🫶🏼
Masterlist
Chan is not someone who often gives up control. In just about every aspect of his life, he is a leader, someone who takes charge. The bedroom was no different, and you loved it. His presence was so commanding and the energy he gave off being dominant was captivating. Chan could turn you on with a single look, touch, or word anytime and anywhere. The constant feeling of his control and power was so exciting. You’ve always considered yourself a “bottom.” You loved being manhandled, teased, and dominated and you’d never tried anything else.
On the other hand, there’s an image you can’t quite get out of your mind. The DominATE CelebrATE weekend had just ended and the internet was running wild. Chan had already gone to the studio for the day and you were lying in bed, trying to convince yourself to get up and be productive. To continue distracting yourself from doing actual work, you decide to scroll on your phone. You make your way to tiktok, fully prepared for the new fan edits of your boyfriend and his group mates. That’s when you see it. An edit of Chan, trying to get the entire crowd quiet, hands coming together and mouthing please. Fans were losing their minds at the thought of Chan begging, and so were you. For the rest of the day it was all you could think about. Doing laundry? The thought of Chan on his knees for you. Putting away dishes? The thought of Chan whining underneath you. It consumed your every thought. You couldn’t wait until he got home, because you needed to see it live and in person.
Your heart nearly skipped a beat when you heard the front door close and the kicking off of shoes. You leapt up from the bed and practically run to greet Chan at the door.
“Hi, baby.” He greets you soft and sweet as you run up to him wrapping your arms around his neck, your breath uneven at your day-long arousal.
“Channieeee…” You wrap your hands up and into his hair and place a hungry kiss on his lips. He’s a bit startled, given that he’s just walked in and he can tell you’re extra needy. He kisses you back and leans into you, slowly taking a few steps back with you in his arms. You take your left hand and trail it down his chest and up under his shirt. His body tenses as you caress his abs underneath.
“Well hello to you too. Something on your mind?” He breaks the kiss only for a moment, and then pounces back onto you. You slide the hand that was under his shirt down and begin to palm him over his sweats. Those damn grey sweatpants aren’t helping your current situation. He breathes out when you make contact with him, already hard from your touch. You disconnect from his full lips and begin placing kisses down his jaw and neck. “What’s gotten into you sweetheart? Not that I’m complaining.” He whispers, head leaning back as you continue moving your hand on top of his clothed cock.
“I-I want to try something.” You exhale, your warm breath against his neck. You look up at him, nervous to tell him what you need. “I want to top tonight. I need to make you fall apart for me. Please.” He’s dumbfounded by the words as they come out of your mouth. You had always loved being dominated so much that he never imagined you’d want this.
“Uh, I guess we can try it. That makes me a bit nervous, I’m not used to it.” Chan admits, but the need in your voice is quickly driving that thought out of his head.
“All you have to do is sit there, listen, and look pretty, Channie. If you don’t want to, that’s fine. I’m not gonna make you do something you’re uncomfortable with. But I think you might love it.” You’re still stroking him gently through his sweats, and you can already tell he’s getting impatient with your teasing. Little does he know, it’s just the start.
“Okay, baby. How could I ever say no to you? Just this once.” He lets out trying to contain his need to pounce on you. You squeal out of excitement and take his hand. You lead him to a chair around the kitchen table.
“I think you’ll change your mind. Sit. Shirt off.” You say sternly. He obeys immediately, and you walk into your bedroom. Chan is somewhat confused, but doesn’t question you, and waits patiently. When you emerge from your bedroom, you’re in a matching black bra and underwear set and you’re holding something that makes Chan’s eyebrow raise. Handcuffs.
“Baby, is that really necessary.” He asks as you bring both of his hands behind the chair. You fish the middle of the handcuffs through an opening in the chair so that his hands are restrained against the back of the chair. As they click closed you reply.
“Shhh, be a good boy for me.” You put a single finger over his lips as you say it. You begin to pull down his sweatpants, causing him to wiggle in the seat, the build up making him to let out a low groan. Once they’re at his feet, he helps kick them off. You climb on top of his lap, the only barrier between your naked bodies is your underwear and his boxers. You wrap your arms around his neck to steady yourself & begin to slowly move back and forth on top of him, grinding into him just enough to send sparks flying. His head drops back, letting out a moan. You take the opportunity to attach your lips to his neck, licking and sucking at the soft skin.
“Fuck, baby. Please I need to touch you.” He whines out underneath you, his hands pulling at the handcuffs.
“Sorry, Channie. You don’t get what you want tonight. It’s up to me.” You move down his chest, your denial making him groan. He begins trying to buck his hips up into you, wanting more and harsher contact. You slide off of him quickly, getting on your knees. “Struggling already are we? I’m just getting started.”
You hook your fingers along the waistline of his boxers and begin to pull them down, his hard length bouncing up against his lower stomach. His precum has left a wet spot on his boxers, and his cock is red and angry, desperate for more attention. Your hands rub up his thighs, & he lets out a whimper, all he wants is your touch.
“What do you want, baby?” You look up at him through your eyelashes. The sight of you on your knees in front of him, but not being able to touch you has him reeling. “Say it nicely and I might give it to you.” Your hands rub small circles on his thighs, just close enough to where he really wants them.
“Touch me, please.” He breathes out quickly. You continue, not giving him what he wants yet.
“Where? You really should be more specific.” You smirk up at him, his head falling back. You’re driving him crazy and it’s lighting a fire inside of you.
“U-ugh, my cock baby, p-please.” He grunts out, wiggling underneath your hands.
“Good boy.” You praise as you finally touch him. Your right hand begins stroking him slowly. With your words and hands finally on him, he whimpers and you swear the sound is enough to make you cum right on the spot. He struggles against his restraints as you begin pumping him faster. Without wanting, you bring your lips down around the tip, causing him shudder and whine underneath you. You continue stroking him while your tongue works circles around the head of his cock.
“O-oh my god. Fuck” He sobs underneath you. He is constantly moving, a mess from your teasing. “Baby keep this up and I’m not gonna last very long.” He says, out of breath. You then take the entirety on his length into your mouth, all the way to the hilt. You gag around him, eyes filling with tears at the intrusion in your throat. His head shoots up and as you come back up, he bucks his hips up into your mouth, clearly close and chasing his orgasm. You pull away immediately and he looks at you longingly.
“W-what are you doing? Please don’t stop.” He cries out, so desperate for release.
“I don’t know if you deserve to cum, Channie. Bucking your hips up, still trying to be in control, aren’t you?” Your reply comes out harsh, wanting him to fall apart.
“N-no, please, I’m sorry. I’ll be good. Please make me cum.” He rambles out. My god he looks so good like this.
“You better be, or you won’t cum all night. Got it?” He nods slightly, unable to form words as you begin pumping him again. You spit on his dick, using it to slide your hand up and down quicker. He’s so hard that his cock looks like it could break, his veins popping out like you’ve never seen before. You stroke him fast and hard, and take him in your mouth again. Your right hand working on the bottom of his shaft that your mouth can’t handle. You move your left hand down and squeeze his balls ever so slightly.
“S-shit. F-uck oh my god I’m so close. Can I cum, baby. Please?” Chan blurts out, being right on the edge is torture, but he’s afraid of you pulling away again. You lift off his cock just for a second to reply, but continue your other movements.
“Since you asked so nicely. Cum for me, pretty boy.” You whisper seductively, before placing your lips back down on him. Your permission sets him off immediately and his load shoots down your throat, hot and quick. You drink down every drop, and continue jerking him, painfully slow. He is a mess, his body is trembling and his moans are coming out one after the other.
“Y/n, w-wait, too much, f-fuck.” He cries out from overstimulation, still pumping him with your right hand. You bring your hand that was on his balls up and use your nails to lightly scratch up his stomach. You then reach up and take his nipple between your fingers, twirling and pinching it tightly. He lets out a deep groan again, not sure how long he can take this.
“You didn’t think I was done with you yet, did you? You look too pretty when you cum, I need to see it again.” You tease as you stand up, taking your hands off him completely. He is breathing hard, still coming down from his orgasm and from the intensity of not knowing what’s next. You step back and begin taking off your bra and underwear carefully. His eyes are locked on you, eating up every square inch of your body. Once you’re naked, you move back onto his lap, sitting on his thighs, his cock, still hard, right in front of your stomach.
“Fuck me baby, I need you.” His words take away your last bit of self control. You sink down on him quick and brutal. He wasn’t prepared for that, and he lets out a whimper. “Fuck you’re drenched, and I haven’t even touched you.” His eyes roll back, and you begin to grind on his cock.
“Didn’t need to Channie. Do you have any idea how good you look crumbling underneath me? You’re fucking unreal.” He lets out a purr as you move in circles, his cock hitting deep inside you. You grab his chin, forcing him to look at you again. He feels incredible inside of you and you know it’s not going to take long for you to come. You’ve been on edge watching him all night. You brace your feet on the ledge underneath the sides of the chair and begin ruthlessly bouncing on him. With each stroke he lets out a moan. He’s pulling at the cuffs again, desperate to hold you, but you’ve already told him that’s not happening, so he doesn’t ask again.
“You f-feel so good on my cock. F-fuck.” He exhales, breath caught in your chest. Your hands are wrapped around his neck. You bring your left hand up to tug at his hair, causing his mouth to fall open at the sensation. You snake your left hand down and begin circling your clit. You’re just as desperate for relief as he is. He growls at the view of you touching yourself. You’re unable to speak, even though you’re still supposed to be the one in control. “I need you to cum, baby. Please, I need to see you.” He says & begins kissing your neck in front of him.
His words and every sensation are so powerful, your body begins to shake as your orgasm hits you hard. You feel his cock twitch inside of you as you continue riding out your high, and his cum shoots into you. You bury your cunt all the way to the hilt, soaking up every bit. You lean into each other, panting, trying to regain consciousness. You sit there for a moment, not wanting to disconnect from him.
“Holy shit. That was insane.” He finally speaks, breaking the silence. You both bring your heads up to look at each other. You smile at him and let out a giggle.
“So would you do it again?” You smirked at him, still unmoved. He let out a deep laugh, showing you that beautiful smile you love so much.
“We’ll see. But I’m so getting payback for that.” He kisses your cheek as you slowly lift off of him. You bend down, going towards the cuffs.
“I don’t know if I want to uncuff you. You look so hot like this.” You snicker, pretending you won’t let him out.
“Uncuff me now or you’ll be getting your payback sooner than we thought.” Chan retorts. You laugh and undo the cuffs. His hands falling down to his side, wrists red from his constant resistance. He slides his boxers back on and he scoops you up and carries you into bed. You collapse on his chest and look up at him.
“Thank you Channie.” You say with a soft smile, kissing his chest.
“Princess gets what she wants. It was hotter than I was expecting if I’m being honest.” He kisses you passionately before you both drift off to sleep.
Pairings: Bang Chan × Princess!Reader (Royal Guard × Heir to the Throne)
w/c: 7.7k words (I KNOW)
Warnings: Violence, political tension, imprisonment, betrayal, mild blood mention, rebellion, emotional intensity, romantic longing, strong female lead
Genre: Historical Fantasy | Romance | Drama | Slow Burn
Trope: Forbidden Love · Knight x Princess · Loyalty vs. Love · Power Couple
Synopsis:
When the kingdom demands obedience, she learns to wield defiance like a blade.
And when her knight is taken from her, love becomes her weapon -- and the crown, her conquest.
requsted by 🍑anon!
Author’s Note:
this is the 3rd request of the 2k+ followers event!
this might be too much for many but i have loved history as a subject all my life and i always will so i wanted to create somewhere, wheare a queen could rule with a supportive partner so i went all out with this fic. it is extremely over-exaggerated and cheesy as per me but i really couldn’t help it -- i enjoyed writing this so much that now my head hurts and i’m off to bed 😭 i’ll edit the 2k+ followers event masterlist tomorrow! sorry
Taglist: @dknbvdb @prettypeachprincesz
The kingdom of Aeloria was a place gilded in beauty and bound by silence. From away, it looked like a dream--space piercing soft clouds, marble palaces catching the sun, and gardens blooming in delicate obedience to the crown’s will.
But inside those high walls, the air was heavy with unspoken rules. Lineage defined worth. Loyalty demanded blindness. And women of royal blood--like you--were not born to speak. You were born to be seen.
They called your kingdom prosperous, but prosperity often came at the cost of a heartbeat. You learned this too young too innocent, the day your mother’s laughter vanished from the halls and your stepfather’s rule began to echo in its place.
The King favored order over warmth, tradition over tenderness. He saw you not as a daughter but as a symbol--a seal of alliance, a pawn in waiting.
And yet, in that same palace where freedom was forbidden, a boy named Bahng Christopher Chan swung a wooden sword beneath the morning sun.
He was barely twelve then--disciplined, solemn, his father’s commands branded into his mind. “A knight does not question. A knight obeys.”
He lived by that spell, every motion a reflection of loyalty. His family had served the crown for centuries; it was said their honor ran deeper than their blood. E
ven at twelve, Chris was sharper, steadier than most men twice his age. And still, you noticed something restless in him--a quiet defiance that flickered beneath his discipline, like a candle fighting to stay lit.
You first saw him from behind a marble pillar, skirts brushing against the stone, curiosity a dangerous thing blooming in your chest. The clang of swords sang through the courtyard; sunlight struck steel and scattered into dust motes. He moved differently than the others--not just with skill, but with intent. Every strike, every pivot had meaning.
When he finally caught you staring, you did what no princess should have done.
You grinned.
“You swing like you’re dancing,” you said, mischief glinting in your eyes.
Chris froze mid-motion, utterly thrown off. “Your Highness--”
“Oh, don’t start with that,” you interrupted, stepping from behind the pillar. “I’ve watched you for days. You don’t need to bow every time I breathe.”
He didn’t know what to do with a princess who spoke like that. His ears flushed pink. His sword arm trembled slightly. “It’s not proper--”
“Proper,” you echoed, rolling the word on your tongue like it was sour. “Tell me something, Christopher. Does ‘proper’ make you stronger?”
He hesitated, gaze flicking down. “It keeps me alive.”
That was the first time you laughed in front of him--a bright, reckless sound that filled the training yard and somehow loosened something in his chest.
From that day, you found excuses to wander where you shouldn’t. You’d sneak into the training yard with stolen pastries, sit on the stone steps pretending not to stare, and tease him until he sighed and pretended not to enjoy it.
He’d call you reckless. You’d call him boring. Somewhere between those names, a bond began to form.
At fourteen, you told him you wanted to learn how to fight. “I won’t be just another caged princess,” you’d declared, chin raised like a challenge.
Chris had stared at you in disbelief. “You could be punished for that. So could I.”
“Then I’ll make sure no one finds out,” you’d said, and smiled in that way that made him forget every rule he was supposed to follow.
He gave in, of course.
The first lessons were a mess of laughter and frustration. You tripped on your skirts, swung too wide, missed your footing entirely.
He scolded you constantly, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him every time. “If you want to hold a sword,” he’d grumble, adjusting your grip, “you can’t close your eyes whenever I move.”
“I don’t,” you lied, and he chuckled softly, the sound rare and warm.
You learned fast--sharper, steadier with every stolen night. The palace slept as you and Chris trained under the dim torchlight, your giggles blending with the soft scrape of blades. You bled from knuckles, bruised your knees, and still asked for more.
He admired that fire in you--the refusal to shrink, the way you met pain like it was proof you were alive.
“A sword isn’t for destruction,” he told you once, when you nearly swung too hard. “It’s for choice.”
You tilted your head. “Then teach me how to choose.”
Sometimes, you’d both sneak food to the training grounds, sitting side by side on the cobblestone steps as you shared stolen fruit and whispered about dreams that didn’t fit the crown’s shape.
He’d talk about the stars; you’d talk about freedom. You were a princess. He was a knight. Yet somehow, it felt like you were equals there--two souls breathing outside of duty, even for a moment.
When the guards caught wind of your mischief, Chris took the blame. Every time. Bruised knuckles, extra drills, sleepless nights. He never complained. “Better me than you,” he’d say, simple and sure.
And something about that devotion carved itself into your heart long before you realized it.
Years blurred, and the friendship that once bloomed like spring began to change shape.
You started to notice the way his voice lowered when he spoke your name, the way his gaze lingered a fraction too long when you laughed.
He noticed, too--the way your smile could undo his composure, the way every breath near you felt like temptation wrapped in silk.
You were twenty-three when you rode beyond the palace walls for the first time, disguised in a cloak and defiance.
Chris rode beside you, his armor left behind, his laughter lighter than you’d ever heard. The dawn was breaking over Aeloria’s fields, fog curling around the horses’ legs like a whispered secret.
“The world’s bigger than this cage,” you said, watching sunlight spill over the horizon.
He looked at you, not the sky. “I know.”
You didn’t see the shift in his eyes that morning--the moment loyalty became something softer, more dangerous. But he felt it. Every word you spoke from then on made it harder to remember where duty ended and desire began.
Rumors spread through the palace--whispers of the princess and her guard, of stolen hours and lingering glances. The King warned Chris to “remember his place.” So, he did what he was told to do--he stepped back in daylight. But at night, he returned to you. Always.
“My knight,” you’d tease him once as he handed you your blade. It was a joke. Mostly.
He’d flinch, looking away, but never corrected you.
One night during sparring, your sword slipped and grazed his arm. Blood bloomed bright against his skin. You panicked, dropping your weapon. “Chris--I’m sorry--”
He caught your trembling hands. “Don’t look so sorry, princess. I’ve bled worse for less important causes.”
The way he said princess that night wasn’t formal. It was reverent. Soft. Dangerous.
Silence settled thick between you, full of something neither of you dared name.
When he left, your heartbeat followed him into the dark. That night, you dreamed of him--the warmth of his hand, the steadiness of his gaze, the way your name sounded like a promise when he said it.
Then came the drought. Villages starved while the court hosted feasts in your stepfather’s honor. You argued with him, voice trembling with fury, only to be dismissed with, “A woman’s heart has no place in politics.”
Chris had stood silently by, knuckles white at his side.
That night, you slipped through the kitchen halls, cloak heavy with stolen bread and grain. But when you reached the gates, he was waiting. “If they find out--” he began.
“Then they’ll find out,” you interrupted, matching his stubbornness.
He stared at you for a long moment before sighing. Then, wordlessly, he took half the sacks from your arms.
Under the pale moonlight, two shadows moved through the streets--one royal, one sworn--and for once, they were the same. When your hands brushed as you passed out food, you didn’t pull away. You didn’t have to.
“Why do you always help me?” you whispered as you walked back.
He hesitated, then said, “Because you make me forget the rules.”
That answer stayed with you far longer than it should have.
In the days that followed, the Queen’s old garden became your sanctuary--its roses wild, untamed, defiantly blooming against the King’s careful pruning. You met there often, speaking softly between sword practice and secrets.
“They remind me of you,” Chris said once, brushing a thorned stem with his glove.
“Then don’t let anyone cut me down,” you replied.
For a moment, he almost kissed you. You saw it--the flicker in his eyes, the tilt of his head--but then guilt strangled the space between you, and he stepped back.
The palace returned to coldness. Whispers of your marriage spread--alliances, princes, noblemen you didn’t care to meet. Every mention twisted a knife in his chest. One afternoon, he saw you laughing politely with a visiting lord. He excused himself before you could see the hurt.
Later, you found him training alone, every strike against the wooden dummy a confession he couldn’t voice.
“Why do you look at me like I’m something you shouldn’t touch?” you asked quietly.
His jaw tightened. “Because you are.”
“Then stop guarding me like i am some prisoner,” you whispered, before leaving him standing in silence.
That night, neither of you slept. He trained until dawn; you stared at the ceiling, wondering if he was thinking of you.
You began breaking small rules again--nothing dangerous, just enough to make him chase you through corridors and scold you like before. When he caught your wrist one night, panting and exasperated, you smirked, “There’s the Chan I remember.”
His glare melted into reluctant laughter. His walls cracked a little more.
Then came the storm.
Thunder split the sky, rain drumming against stone as the palace slept. You found him in the stables, brushing down his horse, hair damp, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked up when you entered--drenched, wild, breathtakingly alive.
“You’ll catch cold,” he murmured, slipping off his cloak to drape it around your shoulders.
You met his gaze. “Then warm me, my knight.”
The words trembled between you, reckless and unrepentant.
His breath caught. Lightning illuminated the space--the wet sheen of his hair, the pulse in his throat, the way his hand hesitated near your cheek.
“You don’t know what you ask for,” he whispered.
“I do,” you replied.
His fingers brushed your face, tentative at first, then surer--thumb tracing your jaw, knuckles grazing your skin like a vow. The air was all thunder and heartbeat. You leaned in, and for a moment, the world held its breath.
Then he stepped back, shaking, eyes burning with something that looked too much like love.
“I swore to protect you princess,” he said, voice breaking. “Not want you.”
You took a step closer. “Then protect me from everyone but yourself.”
But he couldn’t. Not from you. Not from what he felt.
By morning, he was gone. Only his cloak remained--heavy with rain and the memory of his touch.
You stood alone in the courtyard as dawn crept over the kingdom, realization settling like frost upon your skin.
The bond between princess and knight was no longer innocent.
It was a spark--quiet now, but destined to set the world ablaze.
--
Three years have passed since that storm-soaked night in the stables. The memory still clings to you like rain in your hair -- a night that changed nothing, and yet, somehow, everything. You are twenty-six now, no longer the impulsive girl who laughed through the thunder. He is twenty-eight, a knight forged into iron and silence. Time has turned you both into what the crown needed: polished, untouchable, and utterly lonely.
You’ve learned to hide your longing behind poise and diplomacy, to smile when your heart is a clenched fist. Chan has learned to bury his behind armor and obedience. And yet, every glance between you trembles with that unspoken memory -- the near kiss that never happened, the words you both swallowed because duty demanded silence.
The court has begun arranging marriage proposals for you. They parade you before portraits of princes like prized livestock -- faces painted in oil and arrogance. You nod, you smile, you pretend to listen. But your heart is anchored elsewhere, chained to a man who stands at your shoulder in silence.
Chan escorts you to every council, every garden, every suffocating feast. His movements are deliberate, disciplined -- a knight’s perfection. But his eyes tell stories he should never tell. The King praises him for loyalty, never realizing that loyalty no longer belongs to the throne.
Rumors stir like snakes in the dark. Of your “improper friendship” with your guard. Of how your gaze lingers too long. Of how his hand hovers protectively near your back, always too close. You hear it all -- and sometimes, you smile. Let them whisper. Let them wonder.
Chan hears them too, and they burn him like molten chains. “They’ll use it against you,” he warns one evening, voice low beneath the shadow of the courtyard.
“Then let them try,” you answer, tone sharp enough to cut through fear.
The tension between love and loyalty stretches taut, trembling, ready to snap. You begin to see how the palace thrives on silence -- how obedience is the prettiest kind of cage. So, you vow quietly: one day, you’ll speak loud enough to break it.
The King’s summons comes soon after -- a royal banquet, a celebration of alliances. Invitations flood the kingdom. Every noble family, every eligible son, eager to offer their names and their greed.
You dread it. You’ve never been more aware of how heavy a crown can feel when it’s made of expectations.
That night, you stand before the mirror as maids drape silver-threaded silk over your shoulders. The gown gleams like moonlight, regal and cold. When they leave, you stare at your reflection -- a perfect princess, sculpted for display. Somewhere deep beneath the jewels and frost, you search for the girl who once laughed in the rain with her knight. She doesn’t answer.
Chan stands by the ballroom doors when you enter, armored but unarmed, his face unreadable. He’s never looked more like a knight -- or less like the man you love.
The nobles whisper as you pass -- about your beauty, your defiance, your refusal to yield. Every prince who dares approach you finds your smile polite but your eyes glacial. You dance because you must. You speak because silence would offend. But every movement feels like a lie.
Across the room, Chan’s gaze never leaves you. You catch it once, twice -- fleeting sparks of something forbidden. Each glance feels like a blade pressed against your ribs, reminding you of everything you cannot say.
Then one prince, brash and spoiled, grows too bold. His hand lingers at your waist, sliding a fraction too high. Chan’s knuckles whiten around his goblet, veins standing taut.
You step back once, politely. The prince chuckles and leans closer. His fingers trace up your arm.
And before you can think, instinct moves first.
Your knee connects with his gut. He doubles over with a strangled noise -- then your fist finds his jaw. The sound echoes across marble and music. The orchestra stutters to silence. Gasps ripple through the hall.
Wine spills. The prince crumples. The world stops.
You stand tall, breath trembling, defiance gleaming in your eyes.
Across the hall, Chan looks at you -- and for the first time, he doesn’t hide it. He doesn’t look ashamed. He looks proud.
The silence that follows is short-lived.
“Enough!” The King’s voice roars across the chamber. The hall quakes beneath his fury.
“You’ve disgraced the crown,” he spits, red-faced with rage.
“I’ve defended myself,” you reply, voice steady. “Is that a crime now?”
Whispers explode through the crowd -- scandal, shock, disbelief.
Chan moves before he realizes it, stepping forward, his hand resting on his sword.
The King’s eyes narrow like a hawk’s. “You,” he says coldly. “You taught her this.”
Chan bows his head -- but doesn’t deny it. “I taught her to survive,” he says quietly.
The room freezes. The King’s fury turns molten. “A knight’s duty is obedience, not insolence.”
Chan meets his gaze, unflinching. “Then perhaps you’ve forgotten what a true knight is.”
Gasps sweep through the court. The sound of boots striking marble follows a heartbeat later. Guards move to seize him.
You cry out -- “No! Don’t--” -- but it’s too late. Chains snap around his wrists. He doesn’t resist. He only looks at you once, one last time, before being dragged away.
“Let him go!” you scream, voice breaking, but two maids hold you back.
The King doesn’t even glance at you. “Lock him away,” he says. “He’s poisoned her mind.”
The doors slam shut behind him -- and with it, the only light left in your chest.
By dawn, his armor is gone from the barracks. His chambers stand empty, bed neatly made. It’s as though he never existed.
You storm through the palace barefoot, silk dragging across stone, hair undone. “Where is Sir Bang Chan?” you shout, voice echoing down the corridors. Courtiers stare, whispering of hysteria.
When the King appears atop the stairs, he doesn’t even look surprised. “Enough of this madness.”
“Tell me where he is.”
“Where all traitors belong.”
The words hit harder than any strike.
“He’s no traitor,” you whisper.
“He defied the crown.”
You lift your chin, eyes blazing. “Then perhaps the crown deserves defiance.”
A collective gasp trembles through the court. The King’s glare sharpens. “Watch your tongue, child.”
“I am no child.”
The hall falls silent -- your words ringing like prophecy.
Days bleed into one another. You refuse food, refuse counsel, refuse to smile. Every knock on the door sparks hope; every silence leaves it hollow again. The roses in your garden wilt. You haven’t touched them since the night he vanished.
You sneak through the palace at night -- bribing guards, whispering threats, begging servants. But the dungeons stay hidden. He remains a ghost beneath the stones.
You start writing letters you’ll never send. Each begins the same: To my knight.
“They think they’ve broken me,” one reads. “But they only taught me how to fight.”
The rumors twist again -- the grieving princess, the broken heart, the rebellion in her blood. You overhear a maid whisper, ‘She’s her mother’s daughter after all.’ You don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
At the next royal feast, the King stands and raises his goblet. His voice cuts through the chamber like frost. “The Princess will be engaged within the month.”
You stand slowly, glass in hand.
“You want a confession?” you ask, tone cool, calm, deadly.
The room stills.
“Fine.” You meet your father’s eyes. “I love him.”
The goblet slips from your fingers and shatters. The hall erupts -- gasps, shouts, chaos. But you don’t hear any of it. You just turn and walk out, head high, heart blazing.
By dawn, the scandal spreads like wildfire. The Princess in Love with Her Guard. The King orders silence, but the whispers grow.
In the dungeons below, Chan lies bloodied but unbroken, whispering your name like a prayer.
Above, in your chamber, you press your hand against the windowpane, eyes searching the horizon.
And when you whisper his name back, it’s not as a princess to her knight -- but as a woman to her heart.
dawn spills like fire over the palace walls and the world you knew fractures along the heat of it. The morning light finds you in the same chamber that once felt like a theater of silk and obedience, but today the silk scratches like truth.
The day after your confession the court is a hive of panic--ministers with too-white faces, nobles whispering like rats in the rafters, emissaries being dispatched to patch a scandal with marriages and treaties.
The King sits at the head of it all, carved and cold, fury compacted into the lines of his jaw. He speaks of reputation and ruin, the crown’s safety, the illusion of order; his words are a blade he aims at you.
They lock your door “for your own good,” they say, and post guards outside your windows as if stone and gold could cage what is already a flame in your chest.
You strip the jewels from your neck one by one and let them clatter to the floor--sound like falling chains, like something breaking that cannot be mended.
Each jwel that hits the stone rings a little louder than the last, and in that noise a plan begins to form, fed by grief and sharpened into purpose. Where sorrow is cornered, it becomes something else. You will find him.
You do not sleep that night. You scream into pillows until your throat goes raw, then you crawl from bed and study the rhythms of the palace like a scholar of war.
Guards trade shift patterns across the courtyard; cooks stagger home at dawn, their doors swinging with secrets. You learn which sentries smoke by the east gate, which captain’s eye is always a fraction too kind to coin.
Your fingers map escape routes along the underside of velvet sleeves. Every plan begins and ends with the same vow: I will find him.
Below, the dungeons taste of iron and damp. Chan lies there, wrists raw from chain and interrogation, the black bruises painting his ribs like a map you cannot read from above.
Men with gleaming helmets demand treason and conspiracy and he refuses them each time. “You taught her this,” they hiss, desperate for a confession they can pin like a badge. He spits blood into the gutter and answers, “I taught her freedom.”
They answer with footfalls and fists.. even battered, Chan’s jaw sets like weathered stone. Between blows he slips into memory--your laugh tugging at the edges of darkness, the warmth of your hand against his cheek--and those memories become the ladder he clings to.
The King reacts as kings always do when something slippery threatens their polished reputation: he tightens his grip. He announces your betrothal to a distant duke, a bloodless arrangement meant to bury scandal under alliances.
He calls it duty; you call it theft. When his hand comes down across your face--sharp and public as a striking bell--the courtiers shuffle and pretend not to notice.
You have learned to hide your guttural responses, to tuck your fury where silk can’t see it, but the sting leaves a bright, ringing clarity in your ears. “You will marry who I say,” he tells you. “Then you will have to kill me,” you whisper back, and no one laughs.
The palace divides into factions: those who fear the King’s displeasure, those who watch you with new hunger in their eyes, and a quiet current of people who remember what the late Queen was and still whisper her name like a prayer.
Rumors of your defiance ripple through servants’ quarters and reach the city streets. Some murmur admiration. Others call you reckless. A stray title blooms--The Lioness’ Daughter--and it feels as much like a prophecy as a threat.
You begin to bribe. A ring for a guard, a hairpin for a kitchen boy, the careful exchange of old heirlooms for slumbering loyalty. At night you wear obedience like a mask for the King’s councillors: you attend meetings in gentle silk, offer bland nods and safe answers. But under the hems of those dresses are lockpicks, maps, and patience.
In their complacency they teach you their weaknesses: which gate creaks, which torch burns out at the third stroke, which ladder can be tired away from its stone. You keep a ledger of names and times in a book bound for the rubbish heap, and in the margins you write only one instruction: midnight.
Down where the sun never reaches, Chan listens to the stories of other captives--thieves with soft hands, scholars branded as heretics, women who speak in truths the crown could not handle. They are angry and hungry and, most disturbingly, lucid.
Their words seed him with a terrible clarity: loyalty to a throne that kills its queen is not loyalty at all. The man who trained him, who taught him that a knight does not question, looks like a stranger in his mind. From the cell’s damp, a new conviction is born: if he ever slips free, he will not kneel again.
An ally appears in the most predictable place--a guard who has stayed too long in taverns, whose mistress once wore the Queen’s necklace, whose pockets are hungry for coin and for the chance to spite a palace that chews its men. “At midnight,” he says, voice hollow with risk. “I can leave a post unguarded. But you didn’t hear it from me.” The plan is breath and hope and peril, and you stitch it together with trembling hands.
You steal out at dark with soot smeared on your cheek and a servant’s rag for a dress. You move through tunnels narrower than you expected, torchlight guttering and throwing your shadow long on the walls. The dungeons smell worse than rumor promised--old blood, wet straw, the slow rot of time.
You go on because the image of Chan’s wrists, the way he looked at you in that last exchange before they dragged him away, will not leave you. You will not be the quiet story of his loyalty. You were never meant to be that kind of woman.
You find him bound in the deepest ring of cells, gaunt and defiant, every bruise a testament. For a moment he does not believe you; the laugh that comes from his chest is broken and incredulous. “You shouldn’t be here,” he rasps, voice threaded with pain and a dangerous tenderness.
“Neither should you,” you answer, and your hands work on the lock with the practiced patience of someone who has been planning for months. Each click is a rebellion. When his chains fall away, his fingers find your wrist and hold on as if the world itself might slide off its axis without that grip.
“You’ll ruin yourself,” he whispers once your hands are free and trembling.
“You ruined me first,” you say, and the kiss that follows is neither gentle nor proper--salt and blood and the acrid tang of fear and love braided together. It is a theft and a salvation. He tastes like punishment and forgiveness, like rain on hot stone.
You cannot leave them all behind. Passing the other cells, you hear cursing and prayer and small, surprised sobs when you drag open an iron bar and the darkness breathes a woman free.
Faces, once bowed in defeat, suddenly flare with the wild light of possibility. One woman clasps your hand with weathered fingers and calls you "Your Majesty". For a heartbeat the title is heavy and real and not yet claimed, and then you shake your head because the crown does not save people--people do. “Not yet,” you tell her. “But soon.”
Under your orders, whispered and fast, the corridor becomes a river of escape. Chains fall and keys turn. You move ghosts out into the night: thieves and dissenters, scholars and midwives held for speaking truth.
Their mouths, once stilled by the King’s cruelty, swell with vows. The rebellion that will stain the palace began not in the market nor in a field but in the echoing clank of a dungeon lock and the press of a desperate kiss.
By the time you and Chan reach the Queen’s study, the first pale fingers of dawn are bleeding into the sky. The study is a reliquary left untouched for years--dust, an overgrown ivy in sunlight, the echo of a woman who loved the world too much and therefore was taken. You sift through drawers with hands that do not quite know how to be gentle.
There, in ink that has faded but not lost its venom, you find letters a pulse beneath the page: your mother’s hand, conspiratorial even in death. She wrote of tea with a trembling lip and a hand that refused to taste; she wrote of medicines that did not cure, condolences that were too precise, and a pattern that led to one truth--the King had poisoned her, drop by drop, until her heart failed.
The letters make the world tilt. Your throat clenches, not with grief now but with hot, clean fury. The King took your mother in slow, deliberate cruelty--the man who sits on a gilded chair and teaches propriety to grief. The study smells like lavender and lies. You hand a page to Chan and his fingers close around it as though it is a weapon. “He’ll pay,” you whisper through tight teeth.
“Let me be the one to strike,” Chan says, voice low, the hunger for justice finally uncaged.
“No,” you answer, voice ice and iron. “He took my mother. I will take his kingdom.” The palace that taught you to be small will learn in full measure what happens when a caged thing learns to hunt.
Outside, the first rays of dawn strike the banners and the gold seems to dim beneath the spread of red, as if the kingdom itself is shifting colors with uneasy slumber.
Guards stagger at their posts, drugged wine in their bellies; sentry ropes are cut; the city beyond the gates wakes to rumors and the sound of feet. The rebellion begins quietly, in the hush between heartbeats, but it is already loud enough to change the shape of things.
You stand at the window, fingers pressed to the glass that once mirrored only crowns and collars, and you glimpse in the courtyard the first of the freed men emerging like a slow tide.
Chan’s hand finds yours and squeezes--no knightly formality now, only the solid knowledge that you are two people who have chosen one another over law and lineage. In the wet light, his eyes are not iron but hunger and a dangerous tenderness that has softened into resolve.
The King will wake to a different world. You will not pretend to be a pawn anymore. The Lioness' Daughter roars in silence and plans with the patience of ruin. Dawn has become a beginning, and you will see the palace fall, not for vengeance alone, but so that those inside it can breathe without choking on fear.
The study goes dark as you close the letters and the map, as you fit the cloak over Chan’s shoulders and tie your hair back until it is a weapon.
The palace will not know what has been brewing in its bones until the first banner comes down. You step into the corridor, and where once you were paraded like a prize, you now walk like the woman who will take a crown apart and remake it into something that will not kill the people it is meant to hold.
Outside, Aeloria wakes without knowing it has been given to itself. The first day of rebellion begins with a doorway unlocked, a chain struck, and a whisper that will swell into roar: you will not be silent anymore.
Dawn rises heavy with gold and smoke. The palace gleams like it’s been gilded by sin, banners fluttering against the wind as if whispering secrets you already know.
The King laughs from the high table, voice thick with arrogance and wine. You watch from across the banquet hall -- serene, unbothered, the very image of dutiful grace. But beneath your sleeve, your hand trembles once, the weight of the ring on your finger pressing like a pulse.
“To the glory of Aeloria,” he toasts, his goblet raised high.
You meet his gaze, a smile soft and deadly curving your lips. “To its future.”
He drinks.
The world seems to hold its breath.
It starts with a cough -- small, almost polite. Then another. Then blood. The sound of it splattering against marble stills the music, freezes laughter mid-air. You don’t move. You’ve imagined this moment too many times to be startled by it now.
The courtiers gasp, the musicians drop their lutes, and somewhere, a servant screams. The King’s eyes find yours in disbelief, glassy and wide. For once, he looks human -- fragile, mortal. The way your mother must have looked when the poison took her.
“May you finally taste what you fed her,” you whisper, not loud enough for anyone else to hear.
His crown slips from his head, rolling down the dais and clattering onto marble. The sound echoes like thunder.
Silence.
Then chaos.
Nobles rise from their chairs, some kneeling in terror, others running for the doors. Guards rush forward -- but one glance from behind you stops them cold.
Chan’s sword gleams under torchlight, unwavering. His stance is that of a soldier ready to kill for you without hesitation. He doesn’t look at the King’s corpse. He looks at you. Always you.
You descend the dais slowly, every step deliberate, graceful. When you reach the fallen crown, you lift it from the floor. The rubies catch the light -- or maybe it’s blood. You turn the metal in your hand, studying the reflection of the dying hall in its curve.
“Aeloria belongs to no tyrant,” you murmur, voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the noise.
And then you turn away.
The throne that once towered above you now looks small. Trivial. A gilded cage pretending to be power.
“Burn his banners,” you say without raising your tone.
It’s enough.
The command ripples through the hall. Torches are pulled from walls, crimson silk devoured by flame. Smoke rises -- and from it, the shape of a phoenix seems to flicker.
Chan’s voice, low and rough with awe, breaks the silence beside you. “You always were meant to rule.”
Three days later, the bells toll again -- not for death, but for rebirth.
The coronation.
You walk barefoot through the great hall, the cold marble grounding you. No gold, no white silks. Only scarlet and black -- the colors of dawn and fire. Whispers fill the air. It’s not tradition. It’s not proper.
You smile faintly. “Then let’s make a new one.”
The crown is reforged in the courtyard’s forge, melted and recast by your own hands. When it cools, it’s no longer a symbol of conquest -- but of rebirth. One wing of a phoenix, gold streaked with ash.
Chan kneels before you, grinning. “Only because it’s you.”
You arch a brow, suppressing a smile. “You better remember that.”
The crown’s weight settles against your hair, but it doesn’t bow your head. It lifts it.
Your first step is simple. Freedom for the forgotten.
The dungeon gates creak open, the air thick with disbelief and dust. You descend the stairs with a torch in hand, light gilding your face. Faces rise from the shadows -- hollow, frightened, hungry.
“You stole bread. You fought back. You believed in power of women,” you say softly. “None of that deserves a cage.”
No one speaks. Then, slowly, a hand reaches out. You take it.
And just like that -- hope breathes again.
Above, in the courtyard, voices begin to chant your name. The guards lower their weapons. For the first time in years, no one looks afraid.
Chan stands beside you, leaning on his sword, lips curving in quiet pride. “You’re rewriting history,” he murmurs. “One cell at a time.”
The reforms follow.
The old council -- those men who spat your mother’s name like an insult -- are dismissed in silence. When they protest, you look each one in the eye. “You called her weak for showing mercy,” you say, voice like steel wrapped in silk. “Let’s see how mercy feels when it holds the blade.”
You open the palace gates to scholars, healers, and mages -- those once hunted now walking freely under banners of the phoenix. Magic, once a curse, becomes the crown’s new power.
The training yards fill with women -- uncertain, hesitant, clutching swords too heavy for their hands. You pick one up and step into the ring. “First lesson,” you tell them. “Don’t wait for permission.”
Laughter and steel echo through the air.
Chan leans against a column, grinning. “Should I be jealous of your new soldiers?”
“Only if you can’t keep up,” you throw back, and he laughs -- low, warm, reverent.
They start calling you The Crimson Crown.
Children run through the streets with ribbons of red and gold, pressing flowers into your hands. You kneel to meet their eyes. You listen to their stories. Mothers bless you. Fathers bow.
But in shadowed corridors, nobles whisper. She’s dangerous. Mad. Unpredictable.
You hear every word. You smile. “Good. Let them be afraid.”
Power, you’ve learned, can be gentle -- and still make men tremble.
Chan says it one night while the two of you walk through the torch-lit halls, his tone half amusement, half admiration. “You’ve become a menace.”
“Took notes from you,” you reply, a hint of laughter in your voice.
He leans close, smirking. “Then you learned from the best.”
The court pretends not to see the banter -- the way his gaze lingers too long, or the way your tone softens when you say his name. Pretend is easier. For them.
You name him Head of the Royal Guard. The court erupts in protest.
“A guard cannot hold that power!” one of them hisses.
You tilt your head. “Then who will protect you from me?”
Silence.
Chan bows -- theatrically, infuriatingly -- only to you. “My queen,” he says, eyes bright with mischief.
“You’ll cause a scandal,” you mutter.
“Too late,” he answers easily. “I already worship the ground you walk on.”
He flirts shamelessly through council meetings, drawing sharp breaths and spilled ink from startled scribes. You never tell him to stop.
The training yard becomes your shared kingdom. He corrects your stance by sliding his hands over your waist -- steadying you, guiding your motion.
“Focus,” you breathe.
“I am,” he murmurs, gaze steady.
The soldiers laugh. You throw him to the ground; he doesn’t even try to resist.
“I yield, my queen.”
“As you should.”
The tension simmers between you -- unspoken but heavy as armor.
That night, as he escorts you through the garden, neither of you dares to name it.
Whispers spread through the palace like wildfire. The Head of Security has her heart.
Chan hears it, smirks. “They’re late to the revelation.”
You sigh. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yours,” he murmurs just loud enough for you to hear.
Every time you enter a room, he straightens -- not because protocol demands it, but because reverence does.
When an assassin lunges from the shadows one evening, he moves before you can blink -- blade flashing, ending it before fear can even form.
“Always one step ahead,” you whisper.
“Always yours,” he replies.
And in that moment, you understand -- the crown may rest upon your head, but it’s his loyalty that keeps it steady.
Months pass.
The dawn burns brighter. The phoenix soars higher. And for the first time, you feel the weight of your crown not as burden -- but as promise.
--
The world breathes again.
Months after the rebellion, Aeloria hums with quiet peace -- the kind of silence that doesn’t ache, but heals. The palace gardens have begun to bloom again; vines creep up the marble, the air rich with lavender and soft wind. You walk through them alone most mornings, bare feet brushing against dew. The scent reminds you of your mother, of home… and of him.
Bang Chan. Bahng Christopher Chan.
He has been distant lately. Not cold -- never that -- but restrained, as though every glance must now pass through a wall of duty before reaching you. He kneels when he greets you, bows when you enter a room, even when you tell him not to. It feels like the world is trying to rebuild the same walls you both burned down.
“He thinks loving me dishonors me,” you murmur one night to the quiet of your chamber. “But he’s wrong. He made me free.”
The thought lingers. Then it becomes a decision. And like all your decisions -- it feels inevitable.
--
Dusk paints the palace balcony in shades of rose and amber when you summon him. Below, the city glows like a bed of embers -- alive, content. The wind is warm, the horizon kind.
He bows when he arrives, his armor glinting gold under the fading light. “You wanted to see me, my queen?”
“No.” You smile softly. “I wanted to see you.”
He blinks, caught off guard, lips parting as if to ask what you mean -- but you speak first.
“You’ve rebuilt the world with me, Chan. Yet you still call me your ruler.”
He hesitates. “Because you are.”
You step closer. The distance between you crackles with something unsaid. “And if I wish to be your equal?”
His breath catches. “Then the gods themselves would bow to you.”
“Good,” you whisper, eyes glinting. “Because I’m not waiting for their permission.”
--
He starts to protest -- something about tradition, scandal, propriety -- but you silence him with a finger pressed gently to his lips.
“Bang Chan,” you say, steady and sure, your voice carrying through the twilight. “Will you marry me?”
The world stops.
He laughs once -- breathless, stunned. “You can’t-- it’s supposed to be--”
“A proposal?” You tilt your head. “I just gave you one.”
“You’re the queen,” he insists weakly.
“And you’re the man who made me one,” you counter. “So I think we’re even.”
His knees hit the floor before he even realizes it, hands trembling. “You’re serious.”
“Always have been.” You smile faintly. “I’ve defied kingdoms for you. Let me defy tradition too.”
His eyes shine, voice unsteady. “You’ll have to live with me waking you at dawn and stealing your tea.”
“Done.”
“And I’ll kiss you before every battle drill.”
“Very Expected.”
“And I’ll never stop calling you my troublemaker.”
“Only if you never stop being mine.”
He rises, hands cupping your face. Foreheads press together, breaths mingle, and the world narrows to this heartbeat.
“Then yes,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “A thousand times yes.”
--
The wedding takes place at sunrise -- the hour of rebirth.
The kingdom gathers beneath banners of white and crimson. Instead of priests, the women you once freed stand before you, voices firm.
“Let no man bind this union,” they say. “Let it be chosen.”
Your gown glows gold and red, threads of flame woven through the fabric. His armor gleams in the morning light -- but he looks only at you. Always only you.
Children toss petals as you walk, calling your names together.
The Queen and Her Knight!
Halfway down the aisle, Chan abandons tradition entirely -- running to meet you, laughter breaking through solemnity.
“Impatient, are we?” you tease.
“I waited FOR years,” he says, smiling. “That’s long enough.”
Your vows are quiet things -- whispered, not declared.
“You protected me from the world,” you tell him. “Now I’ll protect you from loneliness.”
“You taught me duty,” he answers. “Now I’ll teach you peace.”
The rings are forged from melted sword steel -- relics of battle turned to promise. He slides one onto your finger. “For every fight we survived.”
You kiss him before anyone can announce it. The bells ring, laughter erupts, the city roars.
“That wasn’t very queenly,” he murmurs when you pull away.
“Good,” you whisper, breathless. “I’m done being only a queen.”
--
The celebration lasts for days.
Bonfires blaze across the hills, songs are written about rebellion turned to love. He lifts you onto his horse, and together you ride through streets overflowing with petals and cheers. The Phoenix and Her Flame! they cry.
You rest your head against his shoulder, heart steady for the first time in years.
That night, in your chambers, he almost drops you trying to carry you across the threshold. You both laugh until you can’t breathe.
“You’re heavier with power,” he teases.
“And you’re softer with love,” you counter, tugging him closer.
The crown falls to the floor, forgotten. You sleep in his arms, safe in a peace neither of you thought you’d ever earn.
--
Morning sunlight filters through silk curtains, warm against your skin. You wake to the scent of something burning.
You find Chan in the royal kitchen -- apron over his uniform, flipping something that might once have been pancakes.
“The queen shouldn’t cook,” you tease.
“Exactly why I’m doing it,” he grins, eyes bright with mischief.
You steal a bite and wrinkle your nose. “You’re better with swords.”
“You love me anyway.”
“Tragically, yes.”
--
Later, you spar barefoot in the courtyard. The guards watch, trying and failing to hide their amusement. You win -- barely -- and know he let you.
“That’s treason,” you tell him.
“Then arrest me,” he murmurs, kissing your knuckles.
You smirk. “Fine. You’re sentenced to a lifetime as my most dangerous distraction.”
He bows deeply. “An honor, my queen.”
--
The kingdom flourishes under your rule. New schools open, gardens bloom where prisons once stood, and laughter fills the markets again. They call this time The Era of the Flame.
At night, Chan writes songs on his lute -- quiet, golden things that fill your chambers with warmth. You dance barefoot while he watches, lovesick and smiling.
“You still stare,” you murmur, cheeks warm.
“Can’t stop,” he says simply. “I’m married to a miracle.”
--
The crown no longer feels heavy.
Because every time it does, his hands are there to hold it steady.
The court still gossips -- about your laughter echoing through the halls, about the queen who kisses her captain in daylight. You let them. You built a world where love is no longer treason.
And beneath its flame, the legend of The Queen and Her Knight -- of love born in rebellion and crowned in peace -- lives forever.
Summary: Chan always comes to your house to unload and unwind, away from everyone he has to perform for.
Warnings: two people being emotionally naked together
Tags: female reader, Chan’s chronic lack of self-worth, platonic love (or?!)
Note: I don’t want to call Chan daddy, I want to tell him he’s pretty as fuck and call him princess. As ludicrous as that is, because he could RDL me into an early death. And I say that because I’m Romanian and Chan can definitely deadlift me. But like every small and delusional thing, I want to look up at him and be like “what’s a pretty man like you doing in a cringe world like this?"
Rating: all ages
Divider from: emojicombos.com/divider
Consider listening to this while reading:
(≧ヮ≦) 💕(≧ヮ≦)
Your coffee machine was hissing in protest. So was your cat, though for different reasons.
Chan was elbow-deep in a descaling mission, sleeves rolled up, dish towel tossed over one shoulder like a weary barista. His hair was held back messily with a borrowed headband, and he had somehow managed to get both limescale and cat fur on his shirt. Neither of which, you noted, was even remotely close to where he started — folding your laundry, a task he took upon himself about fifteen minutes ago before he got distracted by a clogged brewing element.
"You know," he said, without looking at you, "you wear the same underwear brand I do."
You arched an eyebrow from the couch, where Miso was sprawled across your lap like a Victorian gentleman in repose. "Glad to know our briefs have bonded on a spiritual level."
"Same brand. Same cut. Just… smaller." He blinked. "Girl version. Respect."
"Are you praising my underwear choice or trying to distract from the fact that you’re having an existential meltdown over dish towels and parasocial dynamics again?"
That earned a soft, breathy laugh. The kind he does when he’s trying not to cry, and trying even harder not to let you notice he’s trying not to cry.
“I just—” he set down the coffee machine parts and rubbed at his eyes with the inside of his wrist. “I feel like I’m breaking. Or already broke. I don’t even know. They say I don’t smile like I used to. That I’m fake now. Or empty. Or trying too hard. Or not trying enough. And I believe them.”
You didn’t interrupt. He needed this — the monologue, the movement. So you let him keep folding towels and brushing mats out of Miso's fur and tidying your books by spine color like a man trying to sort the chaos outside by wrangling the chaos inside.
“I don’t even know what ‘enough’ is anymore. Not for me. Not for them. Sometimes I think if I just disappeared—”
"Stop." You said it gently, but firmly. Like the blinking lights of an unexpected shore in a storm.
He fell quiet.
Then, after a beat, he mumbled, “But you can be objective. Because you don’t love me like that. You know I’m not all that.”
You put your tea down. Carefully. Too carefully. And stood up slowly, like your words would be better balanced if your body was.
“Chris.” You sighed. “Fuck’s sake.”
He didn’t look at you. His shoulders were tight, like he’d braced for a slap but knew you’d only offer a hand.
“You are my best friend,” you said. “Which is a privilege. One I don’t take lightly. And I love you. Of course I do. It’s impossible to know you and not love you.”
He turned then, eyes wide and rimmed red, like the words were air in drowning lungs.
“But I don’t want my love to be a currency you feel like you have to earn. I don’t want it to feel like a mirror you have to keep polishing, or a microscope you have to pose under. That’s not what we do here.”
You gestured vaguely to your apartment, as if “here” meant the land of mismatched mugs, lint-rollered sweatpants, and zero expectations.
“I just…” He pressed the heel of his palm to his chest, like he was trying to keep something inside. It didn’t work. His voice cracked. “That’s all I ever wanted. One person. Just one. Not the whole world. Not people tearing me into pieces because they want to own something that doesn’t even exist. Just one person who doesn’t need me to perform to deserve rest.”
Tears started falling then. Silent at first. Then louder. Until he was sitting on your floor, back against the dishwasher, knees drawn up like a kid who missed the school bus and didn’t know how to ask for help.
You sat beside him without a word. Miso waddled over and promptly climbed into Chan’s lap like the seasoned emotional support feline he was. You gave him a moment. Or maybe two.
Eventually, he laughed through his tears. “I always thought you could be objective about me ‘cause I’m not that attractive. Like it’s easy not to fall for me or get too invested, so you could stay clear-headed.”
You snorted. “Christopher Bang, you absolute donut.”
His head jerked up, startled. “What?”
“You are so pretty it hurts sometimes. There are days I get hit with this stupid wave of cuteness aggression just watching you fold towels with military precision or watching you talk to Miso like he’s your tax accountant. Do you know how hard it is not to scream every time you furrow your brow in concentration?”
He blinked. “You… what?”
“But,” you continued, with mock solemnity, “I respect you too much to make you feel like a shiny object in a display case. That’s the difference. You’re not some idol to me. You’re just… you. Messy, brilliant, over-caffeinated you. And I love you for it.”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then he leaned his head on your shoulder with a soft thunk.
“Your coffee machine’s still broken.”
“So is your self-worth. We’ll fix both.”
He snorted again, wetter this time. “You’re so annoying.”
“Love you too, sport.”
“Oh no, not sport. That cuts deep.” He protested. “I can’t get any love around here.”
“Alright, cunt. Better?”
He straightened his spine and smiled, eyes closed, like he was expanding to fill the word up.
“Perfect.”
Outside, the world was still spinning. But in that tiny kitchen, with its limescale stains and cat hair tumbleweeds, Chan got to stop performing. Just for a while.
And be loved. Exactly as he was.
(≧ヮ≦) 💕(≧ヮ≦)
The air had cooled, but summer hadn’t quite let go yet. A soft breeze carried the faint scent of night jasmine from the neighbor’s potted plant, and the distant city lights blinked like sleepy eyes half-lidded in the dark.
You were both swaddled in the same oversized blanket, the kind that could double as a couch fort if needed — or a fortress for two, tonight.
Chan leaned heavily against you, head tucked just beneath your chin, his weight warm and grounding. Not deadweight — not collapse — but surrender. The kind of lean you offer only when you’ve decided you’re finally safe.
Heat radiated from his body in that way it does when someone’s overtired — when muscles loosen and skin runs a degree too warm, like his body was trying to lull him into rest. Your arm draped over his shoulder, fingers slowly weaving through his hair, feeling the way it curled slightly at the ends, still soft from the shower he took hours ago.
His skin, where your knuckles brushed against the curve of his neck, was warm and flushed, like he’d just come in from the sun. And he smelled… god. You smiled without meaning to.
It was that perfume.
The one you gave him almost two years ago, after a random conversation about how people’s scents could be a kind of emotional armor. You picked it for the way it made you feel — soft, held, a little giddy — and you gave it to him even though you knew it might not be his thing. It was sweet, a little powdery, with blooming notes of peony and tuberose and something warm underneath. Too gentle, too floral, too pretty — that’s what his members teased, said it didn’t fit WolfChan’s image.
He laughed at the time. Said he liked it anyway. But he never wore it around you again.
Until now.
You buried your nose in his hair, just a little. Yup. That’s the one. Still subtle. Still him underneath. But definitely that perfume.
You swallowed the sudden lump in your throat.
He kept it. He chose it. For tonight.
As if sensing your shift in energy, Chan murmured sleepily, “Still smells good?”
You smiled against the crown of his head. “Yeah. Even better on you, honestly.”
He huffed out a soft laugh. “I only wear it when I know I’ll feel safe. Like… when I’m here.”
Your heart stuttered a little.
“I thought you ditched it,” you admitted. “Didn’t want to push something on you.”
“Never,” he said, voice thick with drowsiness. “It just… felt too intimate for the stage. But for this? For you? It’s perfect.”
You let your fingers drift down to the nape of his neck, massaging gently, slow and rhythmic. You felt the way he melted into it, his breath evening out, his body slumping just that bit more into yours.
The sky above stretched in every direction — not dramatic tonight, just quiet and expansive, like a held breath. Like stillness finally granted to someone who hadn’t known rest in too long.
You pressed a kiss to his hair, soft and unassuming. Not a declaration. Just a presence.
“I hope,” you said quietly, “that when you think of safety, you always think of this. Of here. Of us. Not a performance. Not an escape. Just… being.”
He didn’t respond right away. But you felt the smallest tremor of his hand finding yours beneath the blanket, his fingers lacing with yours. A squeeze. Then, a whisper:
“I do. I really do.”
The rest of the world — the noise, the shadows, the pressure — would come back eventually.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he was warm and eepy and held, smelling faintly like memory and comfort, curled up under the stars with the one person who never needed him to be anyone but himself.
Hi. How’re you? I saw request were open and I’d like to request something please. So I loved royal guard Chan in the last two SKZ Code. I was wondering if you could please do a royal guard Chan x Princess reader? He has to protect her while also trying to keep his feelings for her in check. Maybe she’s in love with him too? If you can’t or don’t want to do it I understand. Thank you and have a great whatever time of day it is! 💕💕
ARROWS AND CROWNS
a/n - OMG so sorry for being so late with this request. I was busy over the weekend and i tried to write it last night but chan's damn bubble pics screwed me up so so bad. Oh and the dozens of assignments i have due in this week too! When i finally did manage to write i forgot to save my writing so i had to rewrite half the damn fic again! Anyway unfortunately I have NOT watched skz code so this is purely my imagination! Time to stop ranting! I hope you enjoy it!
Pairing: Personal Guard!Bangchan x princess!reader
Genre: Guard x princess trope, forbidden love, angst, fluff
Word count : 1600~
Warnings: Blood, mentiones of war idk?
Summary: The perfect princess and her guard. Both bound by duties. But love always finds a way doesn't it?
Being the princess wasn't so bad, or so they said but what did they know?
Princess Y/n. The most perfect and beautiful woman the land had ever seen. The woman who was the very epitome of grace and beauty. The one who knew exactly when to bow, when to speak and when to smile. The person who from her childhood was treated like a doll. A thing to be dressed and played with on will.
It was tiring and exhausting. Keeping up the perfect facade took so much out of you. Being the dutiful daughter, the caring friend, the sweet and compassionate princess. Always what people expected of you. Never what YOU wanted. Always the persona. Never truly you.
But everyone had a breaking point. And yours just so happened in the arms of Chris.
Chris was your personal guard.
Well to everyone one else at least. To you? He was your home, your comfort space. The one person with whom you were just y/n. No pressure, no expectations.
He would see everything. The way your smile faltered when you thought no one was looking or the small cracks in your seemingly flawless facade. He saw how you would light up whenever you would see a cat and rush to pet it. He saw how you looked most at home in the gardens sketching everything and anything you saw.
And slowly but surely he fell for you. Not the polished version of you, no but the messy one with all those cracks. Those flaws and cracks were what made him fall harder.
And you? You fell for the man who was always there for you. The man who picked you up after you broke down. The one who would fix your cracks with his love, his attention, his care.
But of course, such attraction was forbidden and frowned upon by society. True love always was hard. He was just a measly guard from a poor family while you were the princess of an empire.
So your love? It remained secret. It was the kind of love that lived in stolen glances across the hall or fleeting touches in the corridors.
But those moments? They were enough for you. They were enough to give you hope and encouragement in your darkest moments. You were happy. You were content. You were at peace, But when did peace ever last?
Your kingdom was under attack. Your father left to protect and to lead. He went to fulfill his duties as king.
And you? You were ordered to stay safe. Stay in the palace. Stay in the heart of the kingdom providing comfort to the citizens.
But you were scared. You were scared for your father and for your people. Scared of what could happen .
Chris was your biggest support. Always there to remind you that your father and his army's skill was unmatched. There to hold your hand and give you the comfort you so desperately craved.
You anxiously paced the balcony of your chamber overlooking the village. Your long, embroidered skirts swished around your feet and your hair fluttered in the slight breeze.
Chris gazed at you moving about, utterly enamoured. Despite being so agitated, you were still the most beautiful person he had ever laid his eyes upon.
“Why have we not gotten any news yet?” you looked at him desperately.“It has been 5 days since he left.”
“Princess relax. I’m sure nothing bad has happened. War is hard and difficult but we will make it out.“ Chris reassured you.
He opened up his arms and you embraced him, nestling your face into the crook of his neck.
“I am scared.” You confessed, your voice slightly muffled.
“I am too.” he replied, “but we need to be brave. We need to be brave for the young children who look up to you. We need to be brave for the parents whose sons are out fighting and for those women working so hard to keep their families well fed and healthy.”
“How are you so calm and collected?” you asked detaching yourself from him.
“Well one of us needs to be calm in this relationship.” he said with a teasing smile.
Laughing, you smacked his arm and chased him all around your chamber.
Suddenly, 5 guards burst into your chamber.
“Your majesty, a few dozen enemy soldiers have managed to reach the village. We need to get you away from here and to safety.” Minho, the head guard of the palace told you, panting.
“What? Are the people okay? Is anyone hurt? How did they manage to get here? And I - I can’t just leave like that. I need to be here for them.” you said, your heart now beating incredibly fast.
“My princess, we need to keep you safe. You are the only member of the royal family. If they capture you then everything will be over. The kingdom along with you will be in danger. Our soldiers will capture the enemy and keep everyone safe but for now we need to get you out of here.” Chris spoke up.
You bit your lip, gazing at Chris.
Finally, you nodded. "I'll leave but there needs to be security for all the innocents. Not one person should be harmed."
"Yes your highness." Minho bowed deeply to you. "Now we must hurry. A carriage is waiting for you in the back courtyard."
“I’ll take her.” Chris said.
Both men locked eyes for a few moments and an unspoken agreement seemed to pass through them.
“Very well. There will be 4 extra guards accompanying her majesty for her security in the carriage. Do hurry.”
Minho then left with the other guards.
Chris gave you a comforting smile and held his hand out for you. You took it and let him lead you down the winding corridors and through the passages in the castle built exactly for this purpose.
Finally you stepped out in the courtyard. Guards were bustling all around you, getting ready to leave to protect the innocents.
You moved towards the carriage waiting for you when suddenly a lot of things happened at once.
The emergency horn rang out across the yard indicating that hostile forces had entered the palace. Chris grabbed your arm and began walking faster towards the carriage with you.
Suddenly one of the servant boys, seungmin yelled "Watch out!"
The world seemed to slow down as you and chan turned towards the boy and saw an arrow headed straight for your heart.
Chris grabbed your arm and pushed you out of the way. You fell to the ground and braced yourself with your arms. Small stones dug themselves into your arms and pain shot across your entire body.
Staggering to your feet, you turned around to look at chris and your heart sank.
The blood. So much blood. The arrow. His neck. His pale face. His neck. The redness of his blood contrasting with his previously immaculate uniform.
You let out a piercing scream. You rushed toward him and fell to your knees. You hands shook. Your head pounded. Nothing else mattered. The yells, the sounds of swords clanging were just background noise. He was the only thing that mattered.
You cupped his head and laid it into your lap. His beautiful brown eyes, that always held so much love for you were now so unfocused.
"Chris, look at me. Look at me." You gasped out. Tears filled your eyes.
All of a sudden though, Minho arrived and pulled you away from chris and towards the carriage.
"No! Let me go! Chris! The arrow. His- I-." you struggled against minho's grip, desperately trying to pull your hand from his grasp as sobs tore their way through your body.
"Princess you need to leave!" minho growled.
"I can't! Chris!" you sobbed harder.
"There is NOTHING you can do for him. Now please your highness, walk faster!"
"No no no! Don't don't say it like that-. He- he isn't- isn't dead." you gasped. The burning image of his bloody form flashed in your mind once again.
By now the other guards had arrived and escorted you to the carriage. You sobbed as the carriage drove away. You gazed at your hands where his blood had managed to get in the lines of your hands. Your skirts were soaked red.
Being a princess, even if your entire world fell apart, you were still expected to keep going on.
A week passed. A week of not sleeping every night. A week of chris' pale face contored in pain flashing before your eyes every moment. A week of sobbing for hours on end.
Then finally the news came. Your father was home. You had won.
You travelled back to your palace that very day. Your heart was in your throat.
The 'What if's plagued your mind. The worst one of all. What if chris wasn't-. You couldn't finish that thought.
You arrived at the gates and rushed towards the throne room. You embraced your father tightly, a sense of peace washing over you.
Out of the corner of your eyes though, you saw movement.
Minho.
Detaching yourself from your father you rushed towards him.
"Chris? Where is he minho? Is he alright?"
"Turn around princess." came a familiar voice.
Gasping, you whirled around.
There he was.
You froze.
Battered and bruised yes, but he was there. Standing in front of you.
You flung yourself at him.
You were back in his arms at last.
Your home.
(dividers are by @saradika-graphics)
If you enjoyed my work check out my masterlist? Thanks!
Summary: A fallen princess and a humble blacksmith find each other amidst rebellion, forging love in the ashes of a broken kingdom.
Words: 8.4k
A/N: AYOOO IT'S CHRISPY'S BIRTHDAY MANNNNNNN!!! IK I'M LIKE SUPER LATE BUT AYE I AT LEAST ACED MY SPANISH TEST
The night was heavy with rain.
Each droplet stung like shards of ice against her cheeks as she tore through the woods, her velvet skirts soaked, her breath ragged. Twigs clawed at her arms. The once-golden hem of her gown was now dark with mud. Behind her, distant horns echoed — the royal guard. Her father’s guard.
“Find her! Don’t let the princess escape the ridge!” a voice thundered through the forest.
Her heart pounded harder. No. She couldn’t go back. She’d rather freeze to death than return to that gilded prison, chained to a man who smiled only when someone knelt before him.
A root caught her foot. She stumbled, falling to her knees with a sharp cry. Pain rippled through her ankle, but she pushed herself up again, clutching her hood tighter. “Keep moving, Aera,” she whispered to herself — the name she’d chosen the moment she ran from the palace. “You are no princess now.”
Lightning split the sky, revealing the faint outline of rooftops in the distance — a village. Relief surged through her, but her legs gave way before she could reach it. Darkness swallowed her whole.
When she woke, she was warm.
The first thing she felt was the soft crackle of fire nearby and the faint metallic scent of iron. Her eyelids fluttered open to the sight of a dimly lit workshop — walls lined with hammers, blades, and unfinished tools. A forge glowed on the other side of the room.
She tried to sit up but winced, pain shooting up her ankle.
“Ah— careful,” a voice said gently.
Her gaze darted up.
A man stood by the forge, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair messy from heat and work. He wasn’t dressed like a noble — his shirt was loose, collar undone, and his forearms were streaked with soot. But his eyes… they were soft, warm brown, curious yet kind.
“You took a rather nasty fall,” he said, setting down a cloth. “I found you near the ridge. Thought you might be dead for a moment.”
Her throat was dry. “You— you carried me here?”
“Aye,” he replied, a small grin tugging at his lips. “You’re light as a bundle of straw. Not much trouble.”
She blinked, unsure how to respond to such casual humor. “I… am most grateful,” she murmured. Her speech came out smoother, more refined than she intended.
His brow lifted slightly, amusement flickering in his expression. “Most grateful, eh? That’s a fancy way of saying thanks.”
She stiffened. “Forgive me. It— it is how I was taught to speak.”
He chuckled under his breath, turning back to the fire. “No need to apologize, miss. Ain’t no law ‘gainst manners.”
“Aera,” she blurted suddenly. “My name is Aera.”
“Bang Chan,” he said simply. “Blacksmith’s apprentice.”
Her eyes flicked around the small space — the anvil, the sword hilts, the faint scent of coal and steel. “This… is your home?”
He shrugged, grabbing a bucket of water to cool a piece of iron. Steam rose between them. “For now. My master’s gone to trade in the next town, so I keep the forge running.”
He set the iron aside, wiped his hands, and crouched near her. “That ankle’s twisted. You won’t be walkin’ far for a few days.”
Her pulse raced at how close he was — his gaze steady, calm. So unlike the harsh, judgmental stares of court.
“I… I will not trouble you long,” she said softly.
He tilted his head, faintly smiling again. “Trouble? You’ve not even spoken a whole dozen words yet.”
Something in his tone eased the tightness in her chest.
Hours passed quietly after that. The rain continued to fall outside, soft against the roof. Chan worked at the forge, humming something low and rhythmic. She lay on the cot he’d set near the fire, watching the faint glow dance across his face.
His movements were steady, deliberate. He treated the burning metal as though it were alive — coaxing it rather than commanding it.
It reminded her of how her father’s knights spoke of loyalty, yet this man seemed to find honor in the simplest act of creation.
When he noticed her watching, he smiled. “You should rest, Aera. I promise I don’t bite.”
Her lips curved faintly. “You speak oddly,” she said without thinking.
He barked out a soft laugh. “Do I, now? You speak like you were born in a castle.”
Her heart skipped. “A… castle?”
“Mm. Polite, careful, never trippin’ over a single word.” He leaned against the table, wiping his brow. “Folk here speak plain, Aera. But I reckon you’ll learn quick.”
Her throat tightened, but she forced a small nod. “Perhaps.”
He glanced toward the door, where the rain had quieted into a drizzle. “You can stay ‘til that ankle mends. After that, you’ll tell me where you’re headin’.”
Her mind screamed nowhere, but she merely said, “Thank you, Chan.”
He gave her a small, almost knowing smile. “Sleep well, then. You’ll need strength come morn.”
When he returned to the forge, humming softly again, Aera turned to the window. The moonlight spilled faintly through the glass, illuminating her hands — still too clean, too soft for a peasant’s.
He’ll notice, she thought, clutching the blanket tighter. He already suspects.
And yet… for the first time in her life, she didn’t feel trapped by someone’s curiosity.
She felt safe.
Morning came softly, with golden light filtering through the cracks of the wooden shutters. The rain had stopped, leaving the air damp and cool. Aera stirred beneath the blanket, the ache in her ankle dull but present.
The faint clang of metal echoed through the small forge. Chan was already awake. He stood near the anvil, hair tied back, sleeves rolled high, and a faint sheen of sweat glimmered along his temples as he hammered a glowing piece of iron.
Each strike rang through the room, steady and precise — rhythm rather than violence.
Aera watched quietly, the sound oddly soothing. No one in the palace ever worked like this — with patience, with humility. Her entire life had been built around command and obedience, not creation.
“Awake at last,” Chan said without turning, his voice light. “Thought you’d sleep through the sun.”
“I did not mean to.” Her words still came smooth, refined. “I simply…” She paused. “Your work is… loud.”
He grinned, lowering the hammer. “Loud? You wound me, my lady.”
Her heart jolted at the phrase. “Do not call me that.”
He turned then, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “Aye. Aera, then. Wouldn’t want to upset the noblewoman you surely are not.”
She stiffened. “You mock me.”
“Only a little,” he admitted, dipping the iron into water. Steam hissed between them. “The way you speak— it’s polished. Too polished for a wanderer.”
She looked away quickly, eyes fixed on the fire. “I was raised… differently.”
“Differently, eh?” He leaned his elbow on the workbench, studying her. “Well, you’ll learn our ways soon enough. Folk around here can be sharp-tongued toward strangers.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Later that day, when Aera tried to step outside for fresh air, she found the villagers gathered near the square — women hanging laundry, men tending carts. The moment she limped past, heads turned. Their eyes lingered on her fine features, her delicate hands. A little boy whispered, “She’s too clean.”
She forced a smile, pretending not to notice.
Chan appeared beside her, carrying a crate of tools. “Ignore them,” he murmured. “They stare at anything new.”
“They are curious,” she said softly. “In the palace—” she stopped herself, biting her lip.
Chan raised a brow. “In the what?”
“In… the place I once served,” she corrected quickly. “They stared for other reasons.”
He didn’t press further. But the faint smirk on his face told her he’d caught her stumble.
By evening, her ankle had swollen again after walking too long. She hissed softly as she sat near the fire. Chan crouched before her without a word, rolling up her hem gently.
“You’ve no sense of rest, have you?”
“I needed to move,” she muttered.
He shook his head, eyes flicking to her ankle. “Aye, and now look where that’s got you.”
When his calloused hands brushed her skin, her breath caught — not from pain, but from the unexpected warmth of his touch.
He wrapped the cloth carefully, his tone softening. “You’re lucky. Could’ve worsened it. Best stay off it another day or two.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Chan looked up at her then — really looked. “You’ve a habit of sayin’ thank you like it’s a secret.”
“Perhaps it is,” she whispered.
Something flickered in his gaze, but he didn’t ask. Instead, he stood, brushing off his hands. “Right. Tomorrow you’ll help me polish the blades. That you can do sittin’.”
“You would trust me with blades?”
He grinned. “They’ll be dull enough. I’m not daft.”
The next day, the forge was alive with motion. Chan worked the fire while Aera sat nearby with a bucket of half-finished blades. She took the cloth and began polishing, mimicking the careful way he’d shown her.
At one point, he glanced over. “Not bad for someone who’s never held a sword.”
Her head snapped up. “How did you—?”
“The way you handle it,” he said simply. “Like it’s glass. Most folk here grew up with one.”
Aera bit back her reply. If only you knew. She’d been trained to wield a dagger — not to fight, but to perform, to stand with grace during royal ceremonies.
As the hours passed, the rhythm between them grew natural — her silence, his humming, the steady crackle of the forge.
When dusk fell, she found herself smiling faintly as he hummed the same melody from the night before.
“What is that song?” she asked softly.
Chan looked up, surprised. “Just somethin’ my mother used to hum while she worked. Don’t recall the words no more.”
“She must have been kind.”
“She was,” he said, eyes warm. “Strong, too. Never let me laze about, even when I tried.”
Aera smiled faintly. “Then she would approve of you now.”
He laughed. “Aye. Suppose she would.”
That night, long after Chan had gone to rest, Aera sat by the fire alone, fingers tracing the ring hidden beneath her sleeve — the last remnant of her royal life. Its gold glimmered faintly in the flame’s light.
He will notice it one day, she thought. And when he does, this borrowed life will end.
Outside, thunder rumbled again, and she curled tighter beneath the blanket, whispering into the dark,
“Just a little longer, Aera. Just a little longer.”
The rhythm of the forge had become her comfort.
Days slipped into weeks, the world outside the village forgotten. Aera’s ankle healed slowly under Chan’s care, though he’d still scold her each time she tried to walk too much. She’d grown used to his steady presence — the way he whistled while he worked, the soft laughter that followed his teasing, the quiet moments when the only sound between them was the crackle of the fire.
Yet peace, she’d learned long ago, was never meant to last.
It began one morning, with a single whisper carried through the marketplace.
“They say the princess vanished,” a woman murmured to her neighbor near the bakery. “Ran off the night before her wedding.”
“Ran off?” another voice gasped. “And left the kingdom without heir or alliance? Foolish girl.”
Aera froze mid-step, the loaf of bread trembling slightly in her hands. Her breath caught, but she forced herself to look away, feigning disinterest.
Behind her, Chan’s voice came low, steady. “You all right?”
She blinked, turning to see him standing a few paces away, his arms folded, eyes calm yet watchful. “I…” she began, her throat tight. “I am fine.”
He tilted his head. “You’ve gone pale.”
“The crowd is… noisy, is all.”
“Mm.” His gaze lingered on her face a moment longer before he nodded toward the forge. “Come on then, Aera. Let them gossip without you.”
She followed him silently, clutching the bread as though it might shatter in her hands.
By midday, the whispers had multiplied. The guards were said to be searching the western villages. Men claimed to have seen riders carrying banners of the royal crest.
Aera’s heart beat faster with every mention.
When she returned to the forge, she found Chan sharpening a sword at the whetstone. His expression was thoughtful, his jaw set.
“Busy morning,” he said after a pause. “Folk can’t stop talkin’ about that princess.”
Her chest tightened. “Indeed.”
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “You’ve not much to say about it.”
“What should I say?” she replied carefully.
“Most women I know would be swoonin’ over the story,” he said, his tone light but probing. “A runaway princess, escapin’ a cruel lord. Sounds like somethin’ from a bard’s song.”
Aera tried to laugh, but the sound came out thin. “Perhaps I am not most women.”
Chan’s eyes met hers. For a moment, the air between them stilled — his gaze steady, unreadable. Then he smiled faintly. “Aye. That’s true.”
He returned to his work, but she could feel the question he didn’t ask hanging quietly in the air.
That evening, the sky glowed orange as the sun dipped below the trees. Aera stood outside the forge, letting the cool breeze brush against her hair. Children laughed somewhere down the path; the smell of fresh bread wafted from the baker’s home.
For a fleeting moment, she let herself imagine that this life was real — that she truly was just Aera, a girl helping the village blacksmith.
But the illusion shattered when hooves thundered down the main road.
A group of riders slowed to a halt in front of the inn. Each wore the armor of royal soldiers — polished, bearing the golden crest she once wore on her own gown.
“By order of His Majesty,” one soldier called, voice sharp, “all villages shall report any sighting of the missing Princess Y/N. She may be traveling under disguise. If found aiding her, you shall face punishment by the crown.”
The villagers murmured among themselves. Aera’s blood ran cold.
Chan appeared beside her, expression unreadable. His hand brushed lightly against her arm — a wordless warning. “Inside,” he muttered quietly.
“Chan—”
“Go.” His tone was firm this time.
She obeyed.
Inside the forge, she sank onto the cot, her hands trembling as she clutched the edge of the blanket. Outside, she heard muffled voices — the soldiers speaking with the villagers, questions asked, lies told.
Minutes later, the door creaked open.
Chan stepped in, shutting it behind him. He didn’t speak for a moment, just exhaled slowly and leaned against the wall.
“They’re searchin’ every home by dawn,” he said finally. “You’ll need to stay hidden.”
She swallowed hard. “You— you know.”
He looked at her then, eyes soft but certain. “Aye. I’ve known for days now.”
Aera’s breath hitched. “And you said nothing?”
Chan crossed the room and crouched before her. “You were frightened enough. Didn’t see a reason to add more to it.”
Tears pricked her eyes. “Then why help me?”
He smiled faintly. “Because whoever you were before, you’re no monster. You’re just someone runnin’ from a life that hurt.”
Her voice shook. “They’ll kill you if they find me here.”
“I’ll not let them.” His tone was low, steady. “You’re safe here, Aera.”
She looked at him, truly looked — the soot-stained skin, the weary kindness in his eyes, the strength beneath the gentleness. No one in the palace had ever spoken to her like that — not even her father.
The fire crackled softly between them, filling the silence.
Outside, the soldiers’ voices faded down the road.
And for the first time since she’d fled the castle, she believed his words.
She was safe — but only for tonight.
—
The sun had not yet risen when Chan woke her.
“Aera,” he whispered, shaking her shoulder gently. “Wake now. We’ve not much time.”
Her eyes fluttered open, the haze of sleep fading when she saw his expression. Urgent. Serious.
“What—”
“They’ve returned,” he said quickly, glancing toward the window. “Soldiers. More of ’em this time.”
Her breath hitched. “Already?”
“They’re searchin’ every forge and stable. I heard one of the guards say they’ve orders to scour every road by sunrise.”
Aera’s pulse thundered in her ears. “Then you mustn’t stay—”
“I’ve no intention of leavin’ you here,” he interrupted, already gathering supplies. “You’d not last an hour without someone who knows the land.”
“But Chan—”
He met her gaze then, and something in his tone silenced her. “I said I’ll see you safe. I mean it.”
There was no time for argument.
He handed her a cloak — thick and rough, smelling faintly of smoke and pine — then slung a small satchel over his shoulder. She winced as she tried to stand, the ache in her still-tender ankle flaring again.
Chan’s hand steadied her immediately. “Easy there. I’ve got you.”
His fingers lingered against her wrist for a heartbeat too long, but neither spoke of it.
The village still slept as they slipped through the narrow back path behind the forge. The sky was bruised purple, the world half-hidden in fog. From the main road came faint voices — armored men shouting orders, the metallic clatter of hooves and swords.
Chan led her along the riverbank, moving with quiet precision.
“Keep low,” he murmured. “They’ll have scouts ridin’ ahead by now.”
Aera nodded, clutching her cloak tighter. “Where will we go?”
“North,” he said. “Through the forest. There’s a safe road near the old chapel. Fewer soldiers pass that way.”
The forest loomed ahead — vast, dark, endless.
Branches scraped her cloak as they entered the shadows, and the damp earth muffled their footsteps.
They walked for what felt like hours, the chill air biting through the fabric of her gown. Aera’s ankle began to throb again, and despite her silence, Chan noticed.
“Rest,” he said softly, stopping near a fallen log. “We’ll not go far if you push too hard.”
“I can still walk,” she insisted, though her voice wavered.
“Aye, and fall again, likely,” he said with faint amusement. “Sit.”
She obeyed reluctantly, lowering herself onto the log. Chan crouched in front of her, carefully examining her ankle beneath the cloak. His fingers brushed lightly against her skin, gentle but sure.
“It’s not broken,” he murmured. “But it’s angry.”
She smiled faintly. “Angry?”
He glanced up, lips twitching. “That’s what my master used to call it when I’d twist my foot. Said my bones were stubborn like their owner.”
A small laugh escaped her — soft, shaky, but real. “You speak strangely.”
“And you still speak like you’re recitin’ poetry,” he teased back, tying the bandage tighter. “We make a fine pair.”
The warmth in his tone made her chest ache in ways she couldn’t name.
By the time they resumed walking, dawn had broken. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, spilling gold across the path. The air smelled of moss and damp leaves.
Chan’s pace slowed when he noticed her limping again. “Here,” he said suddenly, stopping.
Before she could question him, he turned and knelt slightly, patting his shoulder. “Climb on.”
Her eyes widened. “I cannot—”
“You can,” he said firmly. “You’re light enough, and I’ll not have you faintin’ halfway up a hill.”
Aera hesitated, flustered. “It would be improper—”
Chan looked back at her, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Aera, half the kingdom’s soldiers are huntin’ you. You can keep your propriety once you’re safe.”
Her lips parted in disbelief, then curved into a reluctant smile. “You are impossibly insolent.”
He grinned. “Aye, that’s been said before. Now climb on.”
Muttering something under her breath, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. The moment she did, her breath caught — his warmth, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint scent of smoke clinging to his shirt.
Chan adjusted his grip under her legs and began walking again, slow but steady. “You weigh less than a sack of flour,” he teased.
She smacked his shoulder lightly. “You should be more respectful.”
“I’ll work on that,” he chuckled.
By afternoon, the light began to fade again. Clouds gathered above, and thunder rolled distantly.
They found shelter beneath a wide oak tree, its roots half-buried in the damp soil. Chan built a small fire with flint and dry leaves, the orange glow flickering between them.
For a while, they sat in silence.
Aera watched the flames dance, her thoughts far away. “You should not have done this,” she said quietly. “They will call you a traitor for helping me.”
Chan looked at her through the firelight, his features soft but unwavering. “If helpin’ someone find freedom makes me a traitor,” he said, “then so be it.”
Her chest tightened. “You do not even know me.”
“I know enough,” he replied simply. “You’re kind. Braver than most folk I’ve met. And you don’t belong in a cage, no matter how golden.”
Aera’s breath trembled. “You speak as if you’ve known cages.”
His eyes flickered toward the flames. “Aye. Everyone’s got their own kind.”
The quiet stretched again — but it wasn’t heavy. It was full of understanding.
After a while, she reached into her cloak and pulled out a small piece of bread. “Here,” she said softly. “You’ve not eaten all day.”
He blinked. “You’ve been keepin’ that?”
She smiled faintly. “You think I would let the blacksmith starve after carrying me through a forest?”
He took the bread, their fingers brushing — fleeting but warm. “Thank you, my lady,” he said teasingly.
She rolled her eyes. “Aera.”
He smiled. “Aye, Aera.”
That night, long after Chan had fallen asleep beside the dying fire, Aera watched him quietly — his head tilted slightly, one arm draped over his chest, his breathing slow and steady.
Her gaze softened.
He’d risked everything for her — without asking who she truly was, without expecting reward.
You fool, she thought tenderly. You kind, selfless fool.
Outside, the first raindrops began to fall again, pattering softly against the leaves. She pulled her cloak tighter around him, her heart full and breaking all at once.
—
By the time they reached the heart of the forest, the rain had softened into mist. The air hung thick with the scent of pine and wet earth, and the trail beneath their feet turned to mud.
Chan led her carefully along the narrow path, his hand occasionally brushing her elbow to steady her. They had not spoken much since dawn — exhaustion had dulled even their teasing.
“We’re near,” he said finally, his voice low. “The hidden folk keep to this part of the forest. Rebels, mostly — those who’ve left the kingdom behind.”
Aera lifted her gaze. “Rebels?”
He nodded. “Men and women who’ve had enough of taxes, war, and kings who eat gold while their people starve.”
Her heart sank. My father’s laws. Her own family’s greed had driven these people here. She kept her eyes forward, the shame curling tight in her chest.
“Will they not harm us?” she asked softly.
“Not if they see I mean no ill. I’ve traded iron here once or twice before.”
He gave a sharp whistle, and moments later, movement rustled in the trees.
Figures emerged from the shadows — armed, cloaked, cautious. The largest man stepped forward, bow drawn but not yet released. “Who comes through the Old Pines unbidden?”
Chan lifted his hands. “A friend. Channie the blacksmith from Woodvale. I seek rest and shelter.”
The man’s eyes flicked toward Aera. “And her?”
Chan’s jaw tensed. “She’s with me. Injured. We’re hunted by the king’s men.”
The rebels exchanged wary looks, then nodded. “Follow close,” the leader said gruffly. “No trouble, no questions.”
The hidden village lay deep within the forest — small cottages half-covered in moss, smoke rising from narrow chimneys, children darting between ferns with bare feet. It felt alive and secret, like the world itself had tucked them away.
Aera stared, wide-eyed. “You… you never spoke of a place like this.”
Chan smiled faintly. “Most don’t believe it exists. Folk here live free — no crowns, no rules, no names unless you choose one.”
As they entered, people turned to stare — at her pale hands, her fine features, the way her posture remained impossibly graceful even through fatigue. She could feel their eyes tracing her every movement.
“Your friend looks a little too polished for the woods,” a woman muttered, passing by with a basket of herbs.
Chan gave a polite smile, though his brow furrowed slightly. “She’s seen little of this kind of life. Give her time.”
The woman raised an eyebrow but said no more.
Inside a small cabin near the edge of the camp, Chan helped Aera sit beside the hearth. The warmth spread quickly, chasing the chill from her bones.
“Stay here,” he said gently. “I’ll fetch water.”
When he left, Aera let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She looked around — the place was humble, clean, filled with carved trinkets and bits of metalwork.
Her eyes caught on a blade leaning against the wall — a dagger with intricate engravings. She lifted it, fingers brushing over the hilt.
“That one’s mine,” Chan’s voice said from behind her.
She turned sharply. He stood in the doorway, droplets of rain sliding down his hair.
“It’s beautiful,” she said softly. “You made this?”
He nodded. “Aye. Long before the war came close. When I still thought the world might grow kind again.”
Something in his tone made her heart ache. “You’ve fought before,” she murmured.
He hesitated, then sighed. “I’ve swung my share of blades. Didn’t like the man it made me.”
She looked up at him, eyes soft. “And yet you chose to forge them still.”
He smiled faintly. “Metal’s metal. Whether it builds or destroys depends on whose hands it finds.”
Their gazes met — steady, searching. The firelight painted his face in gold, and for the first time, she truly saw him not as a villager, not as a blacksmith, but as something far more noble.
Later that evening, a knock came at the cabin door.
A woman entered — cloaked in gray, eyes sharp as tempered steel. “We’ve word of soldiers near the eastern ridge,” she said curtly. “You’ll want to be gone by morning.”
Chan inclined his head. “We’re grateful, Mira.”
Her gaze shifted toward Aera, narrowing slightly. “And who’s this one? She speaks like parchment and crown halls, not the mud paths of merchants.”
Aera froze. Her lips parted, but before she could answer, Chan spoke — calm, smooth, and certain.
“She’s the daughter of a trader I once worked for,” he said, leaning against the wall with easy familiarity. “Learned her manners from nobles while sellin’ their jewels, no doubt. The tongue tends to keep its polish.”
Mira’s brows arched. “A merchant’s daughter, eh? That so?”
Aera forced a small nod, catching Chan’s glance — the faintest flicker of understanding passing between them. “Aye,” she said softly, her tone steady but quiet. “My father dealt in silks. I spent more years watchin’ courts than countin’ coins.”
Mira studied her for a moment longer before snorting. “Well, silks’ll do no good in the woods. Best learn to walk in mud, girl.”
“I shall try,” Aera replied, bowing her head slightly — too gracefully, though Chan’s faint smirk helped disguise it as teasing.
Mira turned to leave. “Keep low. Folk here don’t trust soft-spoken strangers.”
The door shut behind her.
Aera exhaled shakily. “You did not have to lie for me.”
Chan shrugged lightly, moving toward the fire. “Aye, I did. You near gave yourself away the moment she asked.”
“I had not expected to be questioned,” she murmured, cheeks flushed.
He glanced over his shoulder, a small grin tugging at his lips. “You speak like a poem, Princess. It’s a miracle they’ve not guessed already.”
“Chan—” she hissed under her breath, eyes darting to the door.
He chuckled quietly, voice dropping. “Easy. I only said it where the trees can’t tell.”
Aera frowned, though the corners of her mouth betrayed the faintest smile. “You take great pleasure in teasing me.”
“Only when you look at me like that after,” he said, the warmth in his tone softening the words.
She huffed, pretending not to notice the way her heart stuttered. “You are impossible.”
He laughed quietly. “Aye, so I’ve heard.”
As she settled near the fire again, Chan’s expression shifted — amusement fading into something gentler. He adjusted her cloak to keep her warm, his fingers brushing her arm lightly.
“Sleep, Aera,” he murmured. “I’ll keep watch.”
And when she finally drifted to sleep beside the hearth, he sat in silence, eyes tracing her calm face.
He’d known since the river — since that night he’d seen the golden crest sewn faintly into her torn hem. He’d known, and yet he hadn’t cared. She wasn’t a crown or a name to him anymore.
She was the girl who’d laughed by firelight, who’d called him insolent and smiled through fear.
And if the world demanded her return to a throne she no longer wanted—
then he’d stand between her and that world, sword in hand.
—
Thunder rolled low across the forest that night, a slow growl beneath the rain.
Aera stirred awake to the faint clang of metal — not Chan’s hammer this time, but the cold, sharp kind that promised danger. She sat up instantly, heart racing. “Chan?”
He was already by the door, dagger in hand, eyes dark and focused.
“Stay close to me,” he murmured. “Soldiers be near.”
Her stomach dropped. “The King’s men?”
He gave a grim nod. “They’ve found the rebels’ trail. And likely—ours.”
She swung her legs off the cot, wincing when her injured ankle touched the floor. “How far?”
“Too near.” He crossed to her swiftly, his expression softening for the briefest second before hardening again. “We’ve not much time, Your Highness.”
She flinched at the title — not out of fear, but the strange ache of hearing it from him.
“You should not say that aloud,” she whispered.
“Aye,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “But I’d not have you forget who you are, even now.”
Before she could reply, a shout pierced through the trees — soldiers barking orders, dogs barking louder. The torches’ glow danced through the cracks in the wooden walls.
Chan seized her hand. “Come.”
The night was a chaos of rain and firelight as they slipped out the back. Mira’s voice rang somewhere in the distance — “Scatter! Go north!” — before vanishing into the storm.
Chan’s hand never left hers as they ran through the slick mud, the forest closing around them like a living shadow.
Aera stumbled once, pain flaring in her ankle, and nearly fell — but Chan caught her, his arm firm around her waist. “Easy,” he breathed, pulling her close. “You’re not built for runnin’ through mud, my lady.”
Despite the chaos, her lips twitched. “Mockery ill suits a knight without a title.”
He gave a faint, breathless laugh. “Then perhaps I ought to earn one.”
Their eyes met briefly — just long enough for warmth to cut through the storm — before shouts erupted behind them. Arrows whistled through the air, one striking a tree where Aera’s head had been moments before.
Chan’s grip tightened. “Don’t look back,” he said sharply.
They ran until the torches dimmed into nothing but faint orange ghosts behind the trees. When they finally slowed, both gasping, the rain had softened to a steady hiss.
Chan guided her beneath a rocky overhang, lowering her gently onto a patch of moss.
Her ankle trembled, and she bit back a groan.
“Let me see it,” he said, kneeling.
“It is fine,” she protested.
He gave her a look — the kind that brooked no argument. “Your ankle’s as stubborn as its owner.”
Reluctantly, she lifted her gown’s hem just enough for him to see. His calloused hands brushed her skin as he examined the swelling, and though his touch was careful, her pulse quickened.
“You should not have come with me,” he said quietly, not looking up.
Aera’s gaze softened. “And you should not have stayed, knowing who I was.”
“I know,” he murmured, finally meeting her eyes. “But the thought of lettin’ you face that fate alone—”
He exhaled, shaking his head. “I could not.”
She swallowed, the rain’s rhythm filling the silence between them.
“You were not meant to bear my burden, Chan.”
He smiled faintly, but there was a sadness to it. “I know, Princess. Yet I chose to.”
Her breath caught — not at the word Princess, but at the way he said it. As though it was not a title, but a truth he had long since accepted.
“Tell me,” she whispered after a pause. “When did you learn of it?”
“Since the river,” he said simply. “Your speech, your hands, your fear of bein’ touched by dirt — I’d have to be blind not to see it.”
She blinked. “And you kept my secret?”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “If I’d said a word, you’d have gone cold as marble. I’d rather you trust me than bow to me.”
Her lips parted, but the emotion in her throat made words impossible.
“Do you regret it?” he asked softly.
“Regret what?”
“Leavin’ your crown behind.”
Her gaze drifted toward the rain-drenched trees. “Every hour I breathe as Aera and not as Her Royal Highness,” she said slowly, “feels like a mercy I do not deserve.”
Chan’s eyes lingered on her, unreadable — a mix of admiration, sorrow, and something deeper.
He reached out then, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. “You’re shiverin’,” he murmured. “We should move again soon.”
“Always running,” she said faintly.
“Aye,” he smiled, “but never alone.”
Just then, a sharp snap echoed behind them — the crack of a branch. Both froze.
Chan moved first, pushing her gently behind him as he drew his dagger. His voice dropped to a whisper. “They’ve found us.”
Before Aera could answer, a torch’s light flickered through the trees.
“Go,” Chan hissed. “Downstream. Keep low.”
“I will not leave you!” she said fiercely. “You cannot fight a dozen soldiers alone!”
He turned to her, eyes burning. “I’ll not let them take you back.”
“Chan—”
But he silenced her with a look — one she’d seen only once before, when he’d stood between her and death at the riverbank.
“Trust me,” he said quietly.
“Always,” she whispered.
And before either could speak another word, an arrow sliced through the rain — forcing them both to dive for cover.
“Now!” he shouted, grabbing her hand. Together they broke from the rock’s shelter and sprinted through the darkness.
The trees thinned — the sound of water roaring just ahead.
A cliff edge. A river below, swollen and wild.
Aera stared at it in horror. “You cannot be serious—”
Chan turned to her, soaked and breathless, his smile reckless and alive. “Do you trust me?”
She hesitated for only a heartbeat — then, “Yes.”
His arm wrapped around her, strong and certain, and together they leapt.
Rain, wind, water — the world vanished in a blur of sound and motion.
When they surfaced, gasping and coughing, Chan pulled her close and guided her toward the muddy bank. They collapsed side by side, soaked to the bone and shaking with adrenaline.
For a long while, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the river’s roar.
Then Aera let out a laugh — soft, incredulous, breathless. “You are utterly mad,” she said.
Chan grinned, water dripping from his hair. “Aye. But alive, aren’t we?”
She turned toward him, their faces barely a breath apart. Her chest still heaved with the effort of surviving, yet she felt strangely calm.
“Alive,” she whispered.
And for a fleeting heartbeat — as the thunder rolled far above them — she wondered if this mad, defiant man might be the only freedom she’d ever truly known.
—
By twilight, the forest had quieted. The storm’s rage had left behind a hush — birds nesting again, the faint hum of crickets, and the distant trickle of water winding through moss and root.
They’d found brief refuge in the ruins of an old stone chapel, half-swallowed by ivy. Its roof had long caved in, leaving shards of stained glass glinting across the floor like scattered jewels.
Chan built a small fire between the crumbling pews, its glow painting his face in gold and shadow.
Aera sat nearby, ankle wrapped neatly in a strip of linen he’d torn from his sleeve. His hands — rough, scarred — moved with surprising gentleness as he adjusted the bandage.
“Tell me if it pains ya,” he murmured, not looking up.
“It does not,” she lied softly.
His lips twitched. “A poor liar, my lady.”
“Do not call me that,” she whispered.
Chan finally looked at her. His gaze lingered — not in mockery, not in teasing — but in something that made her chest tighten. “Then what should I call you?”
She hesitated. “Just Aera.”
He nodded slowly. “Aera, then.”
The name always sounded different when he said it — warmer, reverent, almost as if he’d known her by it long before she’d chosen it for herself.
For a while, silence wrapped around them like a fragile peace. The fire crackled softly. Aera’s eyes followed its light, tracing the warmth on his face — the line of his jaw, the soft curve of his mouth, the way the flame reflected in his eyes like a promise.
He noticed her stare, of course. “What is it?” he asked quietly.
She looked away at once. “Nothing.”
“Aye, that’s another lie.” His tone was gentle but teasing — the kind that always undid her.
Her voice came out low, trembling. “You risk everything for me. You should not.”
He sighed. “We’ve had this talk before.”
“Then hear it once more,” she said, eyes glistening. “You owe me naught, Chan. My name brings death to any who shelter it.”
He leaned closer, elbows resting on his knees. “And yet I find no regret in doin’ so.”
Her throat ached. “Why?”
His eyes softened — that same look again, the one that stripped every wall she built. “Because,” he said quietly, “you’re worth more than the crown that hunts you.”
Her breath hitched.
He meant it — every word.
She opened her mouth, but no sound came. Her heart beat hard against her ribs, every pulse louder than the next.
“Chan…” she whispered.
He reached for her hand — slow, hesitant. His fingers brushed hers, then stilled halfway, unsure if he was allowed to go further.
Aera looked at him, really looked — the soot on his cheek, the cut on his lip, the warmth in his eyes that never once demanded anything from her.
She realized, in that trembling heartbeat, that she loved him.
Not as a savior or protector — but as the man who had seen her as human before he ever saw her as royal.
Her fingers curled around his. “You should not care for me,” she whispered, voice breaking.
He smiled faintly, leaning closer. “Too late for that.”
Her breath caught. The air between them grew still — so close she could feel his warmth, smell the faint scent of smoke and rain clinging to his skin.
His hand lifted, brushing a wet strand of hair from her cheek. “You tremble,” he said softly.
“I—” she faltered, eyes flicking to his lips. “Perhaps… it is not from fear.”
His breath hitched, the faintest smile ghosting across his face.
He leaned in — just an inch more, their foreheads almost touching—
—and then the world shattered.
A shout rang out from beyond the chapel ruins.
“Over here! The fugitives!”
Chan’s head snapped toward the doorway. Soldiers burst through the archway, armor glinting in the firelight.
He rose in a flash, blade drawn. “Stay behind me!”
“Chan!” she cried as two men lunged forward.
He struck one aside, kicking another back — but there were too many. Boots thundered against the stone floor, hands grabbing at his shoulders, tearing him away from her.
Aera screamed as rough arms seized her from behind.
“Let him go!”
“Your Highness,” one soldier hissed, shoving her down. “The King will be pleased to see you alive.”
Chan struggled, blood streaking his lip, but his glare burned brighter than any torch. “Touch her again, and I’ll—”
A fist slammed into his gut, silencing him.
“Enough!” barked the captain. “Bind him.”
Ropes tightened around his wrists. Aera’s heart pounded as she was dragged toward the waiting horses outside, rain beginning to fall again — softer this time, cruelly gentle.
She turned once, searching for him. Chan was already being forced to his knees, his head bowed but his gaze locked on hers.
Even then — bruised, bleeding, bound — he managed a faint smile.
And in that fleeting second, before they were pulled apart, Aera understood:
This was not the end of their story.
It was the storm before the dawn.
—
The capital had never looked darker.
Once, Aera had known its streets as gold and marble — the scent of perfumed gardens and the echo of music drifting through grand courtyards.
Now, as the soldiers dragged her through the city gates, all she saw were shadows.
All she heard were whispers.
“’Tis the princess!”
“Returned from the dead—”
“—and with a traitor!”
Chan stumbled beside her, wrists bound, blood streaked across his jaw. The once-steady rhythm of his steps was faltering now, his body bearing the marks of every blow he had taken on the way here.
They stopped before the marble steps of the palace — towering and cruelly bright beneath the afternoon sun. The gates opened with a heavy groan, and for the first time in weeks, she stood once more before her father’s throne.
The King of Solen sat tall and severe, his silver crown gleaming coldly. To his right stood Lord Aldric, her betrothed — proud, smirking, his hand resting upon his jeweled sword.
“Your Majesty,” Aldric said with a mocking bow, “we have recovered your lost daughter — and the thief who stole her.”
The court erupted in murmurs.
Aera flinched at the word stole.
Chan said nothing. His eyes were on her, unwavering — not pleading, not afraid. Only steady.
The King’s gaze fell on him. “You are the one they call the blacksmith,” he said slowly, voice dripping with disdain. “The man who dared lay hands upon my daughter.”
Chan lifted his head, bruised but unbroken. “I laid hands upon no one, Your Majesty. I saved her life.”
Aldric let out a sharp laugh. “Saved her? You kidnapped her! You hid her like some low creature hiding stolen gold!”
“She was hunted,” Chan said through gritted teeth. “By your own men.”
“Enough!” the King thundered. His gaze turned to Aera. “Speak, child. Tell me he lies.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
How could she?
When the truth burned on her tongue like fire?
Aldric stepped closer, smugness curving his mouth. “Your Highness, you were frightened. He tricked you. Used your kindness against you. You owe him nothing.”
Chan’s eyes flickered toward her — the faintest spark of pain crossing them.
Aera took a trembling breath. “No,” she whispered.
The court quieted.
Aldric frowned. “What?”
Her voice rose — clear, steady despite the tremor beneath it. “No, he did not trick me. He did not harm me. He saved me when no one else dared.”
Gasps rippled through the hall. The King’s eyes narrowed. “Aera—”
“I loved him!” she cried, her voice breaking through the silence like thunder. “Do you hear me? I love him!”
The world seemed to still.
The courtiers froze.
Even the torches flickered as though in shock.
Aldric’s face twisted with rage. “You— what did you say?”
“I said I love him,” she repeated, chin high, tears trembling in her eyes. “And if loving him be treason, then let the crown take my life alongside his.”
The King rose slowly, fury and sorrow warring behind his eyes. “You defy your blood for this man?”
“I defy your blindness,” she said fiercely. “You rule a kingdom you do not see — one built on fear, not justice. He showed me the truth. He showed me what honor is.”
For the first time, silence filled the throne room. The courtiers — once whispering and mocking — looked between father and daughter with uncertainty.
The King’s voice, when it came, was quieter. “You speak boldly, Aera.”
“Perhaps for once, I speak honestly,” she replied.
Aldric snarled, drawing his sword. “Enough of this madness!” He turned on Chan. “If her heart has strayed to filth, I shall cleanse it with his blood!”
“Aldric, no!” Aera shouted.
But the sword was already swinging.
Chan, still bound, ducked the first strike, his chains clashing against the marble. The second swing sliced through the air — he caught it on the metal of his manacles, sparks flying.
“Untie him!” the King barked at the guards.
The nearest soldier hesitated, unsure — and Chan, seeing his chance, kicked Aldric backward, sending him sprawling.
The court erupted in chaos.
A guard rushed forward with a key, cutting Chan’s bonds. The moment his hands were free, he caught Aldric’s blade mid-swing and twisted it from his grasp.
“You should’ve stayed in your golden cage,” Chan hissed.
Aldric roared, charging again. Steel met steel in a shower of sparks. The duel was brutal — Aldric fast and trained, Chan raw but unrelenting, each strike filled with the strength of every wound, every injustice.
Aera stood frozen at first — until she saw Aldric’s dagger glint in the corner of his hand.
“Chan!” she screamed.
He turned just in time. The blade grazed his side, drawing blood — but before Aldric could strike again, Chan shoved him back with the full force of his arm, slamming him against the pillar.
Aera didn’t hesitate. She ran to the guards who still stood stunned by the chaos. “The gate!” she cried. “Open it — in the King’s name!”
The King didn’t stop her. He only watched — the old fire dimming in his eyes, replaced by something heavier.
“Go,” he said at last, voice rough. “Before I change my mind.”
Chan looked up from where he knelt beside Aldric’s unconscious body. “What—?”
“Go,” the King repeated. “And take her with you.”
Aera’s breath hitched.
For the briefest moment, father and daughter met eyes. His expression was no longer fury — but pride, worn and heavy. “You are your mother’s child after all,” he said quietly.
Then he turned away.
Chan grabbed Aera’s hand, pulling her toward the open gate. The night air rushed in, cool and free, banners whipping in the wind.
“Where to?” she gasped, running beside him.
He smiled faintly through his blood and bruises. “Anywhere but here.”
They raced down the palace steps, hearts pounding, the roar of chaos fading behind them.
And as the bells of Solen rang in alarm, the princess and the blacksmith disappeared into the night — not as captive and savior, but as equals.
—
It began with a whisper.
A whisper that rippled through the kingdom — through crowded taverns, across city squares, down every muddy road where peasants once bowed their heads and dared not speak the truth.
“The princess defied the crown.” “She loved a blacksmith more than gold.” “She stood against her father and lived.”
In the weeks that followed her confession, rebellion bloomed like spring after a long, cruel winter.
Men and women who had long suffered beneath the King’s laws rose together — not with weapons at first, but with words. Words that spread faster than flame.
And soon, the flame followed.
The palace gates no longer shone with gold. The banners of tyranny burned. And before the people of Solen, the King — weary and hollow-eyed — stepped down from his throne.
“I ruled with pride,” he said, voice breaking before his people, “and it cost me my daughter. Let the next age begin not with power… but peace.”
He laid the crown upon the marble.
Aera — no longer Princess Aera — stood beside him. Her gown was plain, her hair loose, the weight of her name lifted from her shoulders.
“I will not take it,” she said softly. “The crown has hurt enough hearts.”
And for the first time, her father bowed his head to her.
The world beyond the capital was gentler.
The roads wound through rolling hills and meadows, where wildflowers danced and rivers hummed softly through the valleys.
When she returned to the little village, it felt like coming home — though she had never belonged anywhere before.
Children ran barefoot past the smithy. The smell of fresh bread drifted from the baker’s hut nearby. And inside the forge, firelight painted gold across the walls.
Chan stood at the anvil again.
Sweat glistened against his skin as he worked — hammer striking iron, sparks leaping and falling like stars. The sound — clang, clang, clang — was the same rhythm that had filled the night when she first found him long ago.
Aera stood beside him now, apron tied over her dress, her hands steady though her palms still ached from learning the work.
“Not bad,” Chan murmured, glancing at her as she guided the metal into the coals.
“I had a good teacher,” she teased, smudges of ash streaking her cheek.
He smiled — the kind of smile that didn’t just reach his lips, but his eyes. “Careful. You’ll start showing me up.”
She rolled her eyes, taking the tongs and turning the glowing blade. It hummed faintly — the same quiet sound from that first sword he’d ever made before she entered his life.
Aera tilted her head. “That sound again.”
Chan looked up from the anvil, watching the blade’s faint pulse. “You remember?”
“How could I forget?” she said softly. “It sounded like hope.”
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the fire — alive and breathing.
Chan stepped closer, the glow from the forge casting a warm halo over them both. His voice lowered, gentle yet sure.
“You were never meant for the palace,” he said. “You were meant for freedom.”
Aera looked at him — really looked at him. The soot on his jaw, the scars on his hands, the quiet fire in his eyes that burned brighter than any crown.
And then she smiled.
“I think I was meant for you,” she whispered.
His breath hitched — and before words could catch up, he pulled her closer. The world fell away. The forge glowed around them — gold, fierce, eternal — as their lips met.
It wasn’t the desperate kiss of escape or defiance.
It was a promise.
A beginning.
The fire hummed softly — the same melody as that first sword, the same rhythm of the heart that never stopped fighting.
When they finally pulled apart, Aera rested her forehead against his. “So,” she murmured, “what do we call this one?”
Chan chuckled quietly. “Not a weapon.”
“No?”
He shook his head, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “A gift.”
She smiled, pressing the edge of the still-warm steel with her gloved thumb. “Then let it be a gift for a world reborn.”
Outside, the sun dipped low, painting the horizon in molten gold — and within the humble forge, the former princess and the blacksmith stood together, the flames of their freedom dancing between them.
The fire didn’t burn to destroy. It burned to remember.
And to begin again.
Prompt: He'll never let any harm come to you. Ever.
Requested: Hey there. I loved your last Hyunjin fic. I was wondering if you could do a bodyguard Chan x Princess reader please? He has to protect her while trying to keep his feelings for her in check? To be honest anything would be great! Thank you 💕💕
Pairing: Bang Chan x F!Reader
A/N: I was literally thinking of writing a Bang Chan imagine based off of his guard role in the SKZ Code episode when this lovely anon came and requested it!!! HEHEHE hope you all enjoy <3
TW. Death, attempted SA, mention of dead bodies and blood, that's really it.
Word Count: 1,718
My Faithful Guard
It happened in the middle of the night.
That fateful night that tore you from everything you loved and everything you'd ever known.
It's pitch black when the lick of flames finally pull you from your sleep. Dazed and confused, it takes a few moments for the echoing screams and sounds of metal clashing against metal to register in your mind.
There's an orange glow coming in through your window, so, slipping out of bed, heart racing, you move towards your window. What you see is utter and complete chaos. Fire burning, swords clashing, bodies littering the grounds of your home, the smell of blood permeates all the way up to your room.
It's nauseating.
And you realize then that you're under attack.
You think of your mother then; was she okay? Whoever was attacking clearly was an enemy of your father, and besides the king himself, he'd surely go after your mother next.
Swallowing thickly, your nails dig into the wood of your window, trying to think of what to do. You had no idea how far the enemy had managed to infiltrate. Were they walking the halls of your home?
Were they winning?
A bang echoes outside your door, making you jump as your head spins around, staring wide eyed at the door. The sound of grunting echoes, of metal clashing against metal, and you know the guards posted outside your door are fighting.
And it sounds like they were losing.
You glance around your room, trying to find somewhere to hide, just as your door slams open. The wood creaks under the pressure, snapping and breaking, as you turn, wide eyed and mouth agape, as the sight of a man, coated in blood with wild, terrifying eyes zones in on you.
The second he realizes who you are, a wide, maniacal grin spreads across his lips. The glee in his expression is clear as day.
He takes a step forward and you take one back, hands trembling and heart pounding so hard against your chest you can't hear anything else. He laughs, as if catching you is already guaranteed, and the whimper that leaves your lips is beyond your control.
There's a split second of nothing, of complete silence, and then the man is racing forward, reaching for you. You grab the nearest thing and throw it at him, attempting to turn and run. You leap towards your bed, intending to crawl to the other side and run out of the room, but your ankle is grabbed before you can.
The man yanks you down, hard and ruthless, your chin smaking against the ground as you cry out in pain.
His laughter surrounds you as the fear crawls up your throat and seizes you whole. You're spun so you're on your back and the man pins you in place with his body, the glint in his eyes piercing and terrifying.
When you try to push him off of you, he simply grabs your hands in his, holding them to the floor by your wrists.
"Lord Joon has commanded that you be brought to him," the man speaks for the first time; voice low and grimy. You meet his eyes, desperately trying to remember if the name Joon sounds familiar in anyway. It doesn't.
Then again, your father had kept you isolated from politics your entire life, saying it was no place for a woman. So, how would you know?
"But perchance a little diversion beforehand would not be so grievous a thing, hm?"
Dread settles deep in the pit of your stomach, your fighting renewed as you desperately struggle to break free from the mans grip. It's fruitless. The mans eyes gleam as he takes you in, your sleepwear doing little to protect you compared to the garments you usually wore.
Letting out a cry, the realization that there's nothing you can do settles in like chains trapping you in place. The man remains unbothered by your struggles and he uses his sword to pull at the knots holding your clothes in place, laughing at your misery as he does.
Just as he cuts away the final tie and his hands move to pull off your clothing, another bang echoes. You jump, teary-eyes falling towards the door of your bedroom, only to see a familiar face.
Chris. Your fathers personal guard. A man you've known since you were a child.
A man you've been in love with since you were a young teen.
He freezes at the sight that greets him, eyes shifting from the man on top of you, to you, sobbing and terrified. You meet his gaze brokenly, and you watch as red hot anger floods his eyes.
He moves with the precision and swiftness you'd seen him do a thousand times out in the courtyard. Years spent watching the man in secret when you were supposed to attending one of your lessons, unable to tear your gaze away from the strikingly beautiful man.
You attacker doesn't even have the chance to react. Chris moves lightening fast, striking his sword through the man's chest in seconds flat, before kicking him off of you, letting him fall to a heap on the ground without a care.
Chris turns to you a second later.
He doesn't say anything. Not at first. But his touch is gentle as he reaches for you, setting one hand on your waist and the other on your arm. He pulls you up, assessing you for major injuries; he frowns when he sees your bruised chin, but clearly assesses it as not life-threatening.
Taking in the state of your clothing, he grabs a shawl off of your desk, wrapping it around you and making sure you're covered before taking your hand in his own.
"We must take our leave," he says to you, voice low and soft but firm. "At once."
You nod, letting him pull you up to your feet. His hand never leaves your own, the other holding his sword at the ready.
Just before he moves towards the door, he turns back to you.
"We’ll have to make haste, okay?"
Scared to find your own voice, you simply nod again, squeezing his hand tighter to reassure yourself. Chris looks like he wants to say more, do more, but the sounds of fighting echo around you both and he knows there's no time.
So, you just run.
-
It's hours before either of you stop.
Escaping from your home had been difficult, but Chris had prepared a horse and some rations ahead of time, tucking them away in a corner away from the fighting. Once the two of you reached it, he'd helped you climb onto the horse before climbing on behind you.
He'd only hesitated briefly, then. The two of you, breathless, exhausted, you still shaking and him still tensed and ready for battle, had stared at the remains of what you once called your home. Only, now, all that was left was bodies of guards, servants, family and fire that burned it all in front of you.
You'd both left then.
Raced on horseback into the woods, away from the fighting, away from the blood, away from the only home you'd known your entire life.
That had been hours ago.
Now, in the early hours of the night, the two of you were taking rest. Chris had prepared a fire for you, setting you down in front of it and giving you some of the rations he'd prepared. And while you sat there, not eating, staring at the fire, he buzzed around you, never once stopping.
The silence surrounds you both. Swallowing you whole.
Ten minutes later, you find the courage to speak.
"My father," you croak, soft and broken, but Chris still hears it through the silence of everything else. "He's dead?"
Chris, who'd frozen by his place at the horse, having been feeding the animal, slowly nods. His back is turned to you, but he shifts his head, gazing at you from the corner of his eye. His expression is sympathetic, solemn.
"And my mother?"
His silence is all the answer you need.
The tears return then, beyond your control. A part of you, despite everything, mourns your father. Mourns what you always wished he could be but now never could be. A larger part of you mourns your mother, your sweet, loving mother who didn't deserve the cruel and unfair death you're sure those tyrants dealt her.
Your sorrow wracks through your entire body, shoulders trembling as you hug yourself, lost in your own sorrow.
A hand falls on your shoulder a second later. Tentative, unsure. You raise your head, broken eyes meeting Chris' own as he stares down at you.
"Forgive me..," he whispers. "I could not keep them from harm."
You shake your head, sniffling, and reach for his hand, squeezing it. Chris' eyes widen, and it looks as if he wants to pull away, or rather, feels he should. But you just hold onto him tighter, and lean towards him.
"This fault is not thine."
And Chris' face breaks then. The strength he'd been trying to uphold, his role he'd been trying to stay strong to, faulters as he takes in your words. The vulnerability on his face is unlike anything you've ever seen before.
It comforts you.
Comforts you to know you are not the only one broken.
"I swear it," Chris promises you then, squeezing your hand in return. "No ill shall touch thee, not while I yet stand."
You smile brokenly then, and whisper; "because my father sent for thee?"
"No," Chris denies, shocking you. You turn to him, surprised, but the smile on his face, though broken and soft, is loving all the same. "Because for as long as breath graces my frame, no shadow of harm shall dare cross thy path again."
His words carry in the silence of the night. Heavy.
It means more than he'll ever know.
Letting your eyes fall shut, you turn, hand still in his and let yourself fall against his frame. Chris shifts to hold you, pulling you closer, touching you in a way he'd never been allowed to before.
But now, under gaze of the rising sun and no one else, he can.
I love your work, your recent Changbin fanfic is a masterpiece 😭💕
I recently discovered that somebody can be "submissive top" and the first person that came to my mind was Bangchan can you write a fanfic about this please 💕
purple light
⋆｡°✩
pairing: bang chan x fem reader
word count: 5.7K
contains: +18, sub top channie, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex (don’t, pls), fingering, chan gets whiny and messy, lotssss of kisses, kinda slow burn, praise kink, yappy needy chan
authors note: english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in advance
⋆｡°✩
summary: Chan’s all composure when the world is watching; steady hands, measured words, a kind of armor he never lets slip. But the second it’s just you and him… all that control cracks. He’s the one moving, fucking, pushing deeper, the one physically leading, but now, it’s never about control. It’s about obedience. Every thrust is for you, because you told him to, because he needs your praise, he needs you to feel good. Behind closed doors, he's yours to command.
The restaurant was warm with low light, the kind that made everything look a little softer. Glasses clinked, conversations overlapped, and Chan was right in the middle of it all, one arm slung casually over the back of his chair, shoulders relaxed, that easy grin pulling everyone in.
You had seen him like this before, the way he could navigate a group without ever looking like he was trying.
He didn’t talk over people, but somehow the conversation kept coming back to him. When he leaned in to say something, everyone leaned a little closer to hear.
You caught the subtle markers of his confidence, the way his forearm flexed when he rested it on the table, the way his thumb traced the rim of his glass without thought, the way he met people’s eyes with calm steadiness.
And then there were the smaller things, the ones only you would notice.
The way his gaze always circled back to you. How his knee brushed yours beneath the table and stayed there. The faint curve of his mouth when you returned the pressure.
You were laughing at something one of your friends said when you felt his hand slip under the table, just resting against your thigh. Not possessive, not even necessarily sexual, just grounding. His thumb brushed lightly once, twice. You glanced at him.
He was still talking to someone else, but there was a different kind of smile now, a spark in his eyes that was just for you.
You leaned in slightly, close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm, and said in a voice only he could hear, “You’ve been looking at me like that all night.”
That got his attention. His head turned toward you, a small, private tilt of his lips. “Like what?”
“Like you’re thinking about something you won’t say out loud.”
He let out a quiet chuckle, looking back at the table like he hadn’t just been caught. “Maybe I am.”
Your hand found his under the table, fingers brushing the back of his knuckles. “Save it for later, baby” you murmured, tone light but full of promise. “I want to see it when we’re alone.”
It wasn’t a demand, more like a soft, knowing hook. One that made his gaze flick to you again, just for a heartbeat longer this time, before he nodded.
—
The night air was cooler than you expected when you stepped outside, the hum of the restaurant fading behind you. Chan walked ahead a few steps, fishing for his keys. Even in the quiet, he still carried himself the same way, steady, sure.
The car gave a soft beep as he unlocked it, and he reached to open your door first, holding it with that small, gentlemanly motion he never really drew attention to, but you always did.
“Always so proper,” you teased as you slid into the seat.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he replied with a grin, rounding to the driver’s side.
The engine purred to life, headlights washing the street. For the first few minutes, it was just the quiet hum of the tires and the low thump of the playlist he had queued. His hand rested easily on the steering wheel, the other draped over the gearshift, casual, controlled.
You watched him from the corner of your eye, the way the streetlights skimmed over his jaw, catching the glint of the chain around his neck. There was still that faint curl to his mouth from earlier, but his focus was on the road.
A block later he slowed; the lights ahead flipped to red and he eased the car to a stop, hand steady on the wheel. On impulse, you leaned, brushing your fingers along his wrist. He glanced at you briefly, just long enough for you to tilt your chin up and press your lips to his. It was soft, unhurried, a barely-there drag before you pulled back.
Before he could say anything, you slid your hands down his forearm, gently lifting his right hand from the gearshift and settling it on your thigh.
His breath caught almost imperceptibly. “Oh… you’re trouble,” he murmured, eyes flicking to you, then back to the road.
“Just drive,” you said softly
And he did, but his hand stayed where you had placed it, warm and steady, thumb brushing into your skin every so often. It wasn’t forceful, wasn’t claiming, it was a quiet promise, one that carried all the way home.
The street outside was quiet when Chan eased the car into the driveway. His hand lingered on your thigh even after the key turned, as if he hadn’t registered that the ride was over.
You didn’t move it, just slipped out of your seatbelt and opened the door. He followed a beat later, locking the car behind you, still close enough that your shoulders brushed as you walked to the front door.
Inside, Chan dropped his keys into the bowl by the door, tugging at the collar of his shirt like he was finally letting the night fall away from him. You slipped off your coat and turned to find him watching you. Not in the casual, confident way he had done all evening, but with a quieter focus, like he was already tuned to your frequency, waiting for you.
“Good night out?” you asked, leaning against the wall.
His lips curved. “Better now.”
It was easy to close the space between you, a few unhurried steps, your fingers finding the edge of his shirt. He didn’t move until you tilted your head up, brushing a kiss just below his jaw.
“You kept your hand on me the whole way home,” you murmured.
“I liked it there,” he said simply. His voice was lower now, a little rougher.
You smiled, letting your palm smooth over the center of his chest before trailing down, slowly, to rest over his belt. Not grabbing, not demanding, just letting him feel the weight of your hand there.
“Then you can keep it up,” you said gently. It wasn’t an order, not quite, but his breath hitched like it might as well have been.
His hands found your waist, tentative at first, waiting for the unspoken yes. When it came, in the form of you leaning into him, brushing your mouth against his, he melted into it, deepening the kiss like he had been holding himself back all night.
And there it was, the first crack in that public armor. The way his fingers tightened, the way his breathing picked up, like your approval was the only green light he needed. You didn’t rush him. The two of you moved together down the short hallway, his hand brushing yours but not quite holding it, as if he was still fighting the urge to grab you and keep you close.
By the time you reached the bedroom, the only light was Chan’s purple lamp and the city lights peeking through the window. Chan closed the door behind you, not because anyone would hear, but because it felt like the night deserved its own small, sealed world.
You crossed the room without a word and settled into the armchair in the corner. Your fingers went to the zipper of your boots, slow and unhurried, as if you didn’t notice the way his eyes tracked you. The first boot came off. Then the second. You leaned back, stretching your toes, completely at ease.
He stayed by the door a moment longer than necessary, like he didn’t quite know where to put himself without you near him. Finally, he bent to untie his sneakers. When he straightened again, his hands went to the hem of his shirt.
But before lifting it, he looked at you, really looked, the faintest question in his eyes.
You met his gaze and gave one small nod.
The breath he let out was almost audible, like he hadn’t realized he had been holding it. The shirt came over his head in one smooth pull, the muscles in his arms and back shifting in the purple light. He didn’t drop it carelessly; he folded it once and set it on the chair by the door. You didn’t say anything, but your eyes lingered on him long enough for his shoulders to tighten. He stood there for a beat, shirtless in the muted light, waiting for another nod, another unspoken permission to keep going.
You shifted in the chair, resting one arm along the side, and let your gaze sweep over him without hurry.
He swallowed, the movement visible in his throat, and for a moment he stayed like that, bare from the waist up, eyes still searching yours.
“Come here,” you said, the words almost too gentle.
The change in him was subtle but deep, his chest rose higher with each breath, his pace careful as he closed the distance between you. When he reached you, he stood there, close enough for you to feel the faint heat radiating off his skin, but not touching.
Your fingers brushed the back of his hand, barely there. He tilted forward, like the smallest pull from you was enough to undo all that space he had been holding, fingers curling lightly around his. The warmth of his skin was immediate, his knuckles rougher than they looked. You brought them to your lips, pressing the faintest kiss to the side of one of his fingers, then another.
His breath caught. You didn’t look away. Every kiss you placed, you gave him your eyes, letting him feel the full weight of your attention.
By the fourth kiss, his hand had gone perfectly still in yours, like he was afraid to break whatever spell you were casting. His chest rose and fell faster now, the faint tremor in his exhale betraying him.
“Can you take my clothes off for me, Channie?” you asked, your voice low, smooth.
The sound he made was barely a murmur, not quite a word, more a breath that could have been yes, before he crouched slightly in front of you, hands hesitating at the hem of your top.
He lifted the hem slowly, watching your face the entire time, checking, waiting. When you didn’t stop him, his hands slid higher, the backs of his knuckles grazing your stomach. He swallowed again, breath hot and uneven now, before tugging the top over your head in one smooth motion.
For a moment, he just looked at you, lips parting like he had forgotten what came next. Then something shifted, the pause broke, and his hands came back to you, this time with more intent. He traced the edge of your bra, fingertips pressing into the soft skin just beneath it. His touch wasn’t rough, but it had lost the shyness; there was a steadier weight in his palms now.
When he leaned in, his mouth brushed your collarbone, not quite a kiss, more like he needed to feel you against his lips. You felt the faint scrape of his teeth there, the way his breath stuttered when you shifted in the chair, giving him just a little more access.
By the time his hands reached for the button of your jeans, his pace had changed, quicker now, thumbs pressing into your hips as if he couldn’t help himself.
He hooked his thumbs into your waistband, tugging your jeans down in one smooth pull. The denim caught at your knees for a moment before sliding to the floor, and before you could move, his hands were on you again, firm, almost desperate, pulling you forward until you were at the very edge of the chair.
Your legs wrapped around his waist without thought and the second later he pushed you flush against him. The impact sent a quiet shiver through him; you felt it in the way his chest rose hard against yours, in the small sound he didn’t quite swallow.
“God, you can’t even wait, can you?” you murmured, a slow, knowing smile tugging at your lips.
He tried to answer, but you were already leaning in, your mouth brushing his in the lightest tease before finally closing the distance.
The kiss was slow at first, the kind that sinks into your bones, but it deepened quickly, his lips parting under yours, tongue sweeping against yours like he couldn’t get enough.
His hands roamed without direction, sliding up your sides, down your back, gripping at your hips as if every inch of you demanded his touch. You felt him press closer, every shift of his mouth on yours just a little rougher, a little hungrier, but never breaking the pull of that long, unhurried kiss.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, chest rising and falling fast against yours. You trace your thumb along his bottom lip, dragging it slowly until he parts for you without thinking.
“You’ll do anything I want right now, won’t you?”
The question hangs between you like a spark. He doesn’t even hesitate, he nods, quick, almost desperate, before pressing your thumb back to his mouth. He kisses it, then sucks, proof that he’s being good, that he will be good.
When you tilt your head in approval, his whole body loosens, “Use me however you need, princess. I’m here for you,” he breathes, voice wrecked already, words rushing out like he’s afraid you won’t let him.
Your smile is soft, almost indulgent. “I know you are.”
That alone makes his throat work, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, his hand sliding up your thigh. He leans in again, but not to take, he’s waiting, hovering, his lips just shy of yours as if he needs your permission to close the space again.
You let him. You catch his jaw with your palm, guide him in, and his kiss is fire and surrender all at once: eager, sloppy, his tongue sweeping desperately against yours. His lips part so willingly, molding to yours with a heat that makes your stomach flip. He tastes faintly of mint, sweet and sharp, and he kisses you like he’s starved, like every second his mouth isn’t on yours is wasted.
His tongue drags against yours, slow at first, then deeper, hungrier when you don’t push him away. You feel his breath shudder in your mouth, hear the small, desperate noises escaping his throat as if he can’t control them. He tilts his head, chasing more, and his hand fists at your hip to pull you closer even though there’s barely any space left between you.
You bite lightly his bottom lip, and he gasps, then surges back in, kissing you harder, messy, wet, unrestrained. His mouth moves against yours like he’s trying to prove something, like he’s terrified of not giving you enough.
When you finally pull back, he’s breathless, pupils blown wide, mouth red and wet. His forehead drops against yours like he’s grounding himself.
“Please,” he whispers, “tell me what you need. I’ll give you everything.” His lips trail lower, softer now, peppering kisses along the column of your throat.
“Keep going down,” you murmur, tilting your head back to give him more.
And he does. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even think. His mouth finds your collarbone, teeth grazing lightly before soothing the spot with his tongue. Then lower, across the swell of your chest. When his lips brush against the curve of your tit, he pauses, glances up at you. The look in his eyes nearly undoes you, hopeful, hungry, waiting. He closes his mouth around you, warm and wet, sucking softly before flicking his tongue against your nipple.
You flinch, hips jerking a little at the sharp spark it sends through you. “I said keep going down, Channie baby,” you whisper, voice steady, coaxing.
His breath leaves him in a shaky rush, and then he obeys, lips traveling lower without question. Down the center of your torso, over your belly, leaving a trail of heat everywhere he touches. His hands never leave you, gripping your thighs, your hips, holding you close.
By the time he reaches the waistband of your panties, his breath is coming fast, chest tight against your knees. He presses a trembling kiss just above the thin fabric, eyes fluttering shut, waiting if you would stop him. But you don't.
And then he can’t help himself. His mouth dips lower, over the cotton, kissing you there like he’s worshipping. Once. Twice. Then again, wetter this time, lips parting as he breathes hot against you. His nose nudges the fabric, his tongue dragging over the barrier, and the low sound he lets out vibrates straight into you.
His fingers clutch tighter at your thighs, anchoring himself. He kisses you again, messy, open-mouthed, his lips moving against you like he had memorised the shape of you.
“Please…” he mumbles against the dampening fabric, voice breaking. He kisses you again, harder, before lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes, lips swollen, pupils dark and blown. “Please, baby—let me taste you. I need it. Need you.”
Your lips curve, slow, indulgent. You smooth your hand through his hair, nails grazing his scalp, and tilt his face just enough that he sees the nod you give him.
That’s all it takes. He exhales like you’ve just set him free, then he’s gone; hooking his fingers in your waistband and tugging your panties down in a frantic rush, dropping them to the floor without even looking.
The second you’re bare, his mouth is on you. No hesitation, no teasing.
His tongue pushes deep, greedy, like he’s been starving for this all night and finally got fed. He groans against you, low and broken, the sound vibrating through your core as he drags his tongue up, then down again, licking you open like he doesn’t care how messy it gets.
His hands are firm, holding your thighs wide apart, almost shaking with the force of keeping you still for him. Every time you twitch or shift, he growls into you, pressing harder, sucking harder, desperate to keep you exactly where he wants you.
“Fuck,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his curls, pulling without meaning to. He only moans in response, pushing his face deeper like he wants to disappear inside you.
When he flicks your clit with his tongue, sharp and fast, you jolt; and instead of pulling back, he doubles down, latching his lips around it and sucking so hard your vision blurs. He’s messy, uncontrolled, but every movement screams of his need to please you.
He pulls back just a fraction, panting, lips shiny and wet. “So good—fuck, you taste so good. Gonna make you cum for me, yeah? Please… let me make you cum.” Then he dives back in before you can even answer, tongue relentless, like he’s chasing something only you can give, and you can feel the world narrow to the slick, wet heat around him. When you try to pull him up, his hands clamp to your hips like anchors, not rough, but pleading.
“Channie—come up,” you murmur, tugging at his hair gently.
He doesn’t want to stop. His mouth works greedily against you, tongue circling, lips sucking, every sound he makes vibrating into your core. When your hand tugs at his curls, trying to guide him up, he ignores it, groaning low like a protest, gripping your thighs tighter to keep himself there.
You thread your fingers deeper into his hair and pull, firm, decisive. His head jerks back, lips wet, chin slick with you. His eyes are wild, chest heaving as he pants.
“Up here, Channie,” you say, voice steady but soft enough to sound like coaxing. “I want your mouth on mine.”
He shudders at the words, but before obeying, he drags his tongue one last time through your folds, slowly, collecting every drop of you he can. The sound he makes as he does it is desperate, wrecked.
Only then does he rise, and you don’t let go, still holding his hair, guiding him until his face hovers just over yours. His lips are shiny, cheeks flushed, and he looks like he’s barely holding himself together.
“Give it to me,” you murmur, tilting your head back, tongue peeking out in invitation.
Something in him cracks. With a guttural sound, he crashes into you, kissing you open-mouthed, tongue messy and insistent as he feeds you every taste of yourself he gathered. The kiss is frantic, wet, overwhelming and he melts into it completely, groaning into your mouth like giving this to you is the only thing he’s alive for.
All restraint disappears. It’s not delicate, not careful, your mouths crash together, wet and hungry, teeth scraping, tongues sliding deep. He moans into you, raw and guttural, and you answer with a whimper that’s almost a growl.
His hands roam everywhere, gripping your thighs, sliding up your waist, squeezing your hip hard enough to bruise. You pull him closer, gasping into his mouth only to chase his lips again, desperate not to lose the heat of him. Every kiss feels like it could tear you both apart if you stop.
You break for air just long enough to grab his chin, forcing his wild gaze to yours. Your voice is low, almost a hiss against his lips.
“Fuck me.”
He freezes, breath catching, eyes flickering like he’s not sure he heard you right.
“Now, Channie,” you insist, sharp, needy, your grip on his chin unyielding. “I need you to fuck me.”
The command detonates in him, and with a rough groan, he scoops you up from the chair, hands sliding under your thighs to lift you. You gasp, arms looping around his neck, as he carries you with a strength that feels as desperate as it does sure.
Your mouths crash together again mid-motion, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, both of you panting into the kiss as he stumbles the few steps to the bed. He lays you down, hovering over you for half a second, chest heaving like he’s about to come undone, then dives back in, kissing you hard enough to steal your breath.
He kisses you like he’s drowning, like he’ll never get enough, until finally he has to tear himself back for air. His chest heaves as he stares down at you, eyes glazed, lips swollen, hair a mess from your grip.
Then he’s moving, messy, frantic. His hands found his jeans, clumsy fingers fighting the button, cursing under his breath when it sticks. “Fuck—baby, I—” His voice cracks, whining as he finally shoves them down, kicks them off.
You reach up, but he pins your wrist to the mattress with one big hand, eyes flashing. “No. Don’t move,” he rasps, the command breaking on his tongue, more plea than order. His strength is undeniable, your body trapped under his weight, his grip firm, holding you in place even as he shakes with urgency.
“Need—need to give you what you want,” he pants, fumbling with his boxers now, nearly tearing them in his rush. When he finally frees himself, he groans, low and wrecked, rutting against your thigh once, unthinking. But then he catches himself, presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight like he’s holding back. “Tell me again. Say it again, baby, please—I need to hear it.”
Your breath fans across his mouth, and you don’t hesitate. “Fuck me, Channie.”
He whines, actually whines, the sound guttural and desperate, and you feel his whole body tense. His grip on your wrists tightens, holding you down like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, and with one rough, hungry thrust forward, he gives you exactly what you asked for.
He pushes into you in one desperate, unsteady thrust, and your breath shatters. The stretch rips through you, sharp and overwhelming, forcing a gasp out of your lungs.
“F-fuck—” his voice cracks, a broken whimper as his forehead falls against yours. He freezes, buried halfway, his body trembling like holding back is agony. His grip on your wrists tightens, pinning you to the mattress as his chest heaves, sweat beading along his temples.
“So—so fucking tight,” he groans, hips jerking forward another inch, almost involuntary. He shakes his head, teeth gritted, as if he’s fighting himself. “God, baby, you’re—fuck—you feel so good around me. Can’t—can’t—”
You arch under him, the drag of him splitting you open exactly what you need. “Don’t stop, baby, please” you whisper against his ear. He moans, high and wrecked, and drives the rest of himself in with a rough snap of his hips. The force rocks you up the bed, and his whole body jolts with it, a strangled whine breaking free of his chest.
“Channie—” you gasp, but the name barely makes it out before he’s moving again, messy, frantic thrusts pounding into you. “f-fuck, keep going,” his rhythm is sloppy, uneven, like he can’t control the hunger consuming him. Each thrust knocks another cry from your throat, and he groans into your mouth, swallowing every sound.
He shifts his grip, releasing one wrist only to hook his arm under your thigh, pushing it up and out, spreading you wide open for him. His strength is staggering, he holds you down like nothing, driving into you harder, deeper, like the only thing in his head is the need to fuck you just because you told him to, just because you needed him to.
“Wanted this—fuck—wanted this so bad,” he babbles, words breaking apart as he thrusts faster. “Wanted to be good for you, make you feel so good. Am I, princess? Am I giving you what you need?”
You nod frantically, nails digging into his back, and the sound he makes in response is almost feral. “Faster, Channie, please—”, and he fucks you harder at that, hips slamming into yours with raw, reckless force, his moans spilling out unchecked, high and needy.
The bed creaks beneath the both of you, the world collapsing into sweat and heat and the filthy wet sound of him driving into you again and again, every stroke deeper, hungrier, like he’ll break apart if he doesn’t give you everything you asked for.
His thrusts grow sharper, more frantic, but you can feel it, the stutter in his hips, the way his forehead presses harder against yours like he’s trying to hide how close he is.
“Shit—fuck, baby—” His voice cracks, a whine dragged out of him against his will. His fingers tighten painfully around your thigh, pinning you down, grinding himself deeper. “Too much—too fucking good—gonna—” He cuts himself off with a sharp, guttural groan, hips jerking like his body’s betraying him.
You feel it in the way his cock throbs inside you, the twitching pulse that gives him away. His face twists, eyes squeezed shut, sweat dripping down his temple. “N-no, not yet. Not until you—” His words dissolve into another strangled whimper, chest heaving.
“Don't you dare stop—” you hiss, nails scratching down his back, and he shudders. “Please—fuck, please cum for me. Need you to—need you to first—”, he buries his face in your neck, mouth hot and wet as he pants against your skin. His whines are muffled there, spilling with each snap of his hips.
He pulls out so suddenly you gasp, your body clenching around nothing. "Chan!—”, you don’t even have time to continue before his hand replaces him; two fingers shoved deep, knuckles pressing against your heat.
“Fuck, Chan—” you cry out, hips jerking, eyes rolling back as he sets a brutal rhythm. Not in and out, not teasing, his fingers drag up and down inside your walls, pressing exactly where he knows you’ll break. The pressure is relentless, constant, almost punishing, his wrist snapping quick and filthy between your thighs.
“Chan—holy fuck, baby—” Your voice cracks, every curse spilling out like it’s ripped from you. “I'm almost—fuck, don’t stop—don’t you dare fucking stop—”
Your whole body trembles with the force of it, your thighs quivering around his arm. He’s staring at you like a man possessed, lips parted, sweat beading on his chest, hair sticking to his forehead. “Cum for me,” he pants, his voice low and sharp, his free hand holding your hip down because you’re thrashing against the bed. “Cum on my fingers, baby, please—”
He pulls out just for a second and your broken whine tears through the air, then he’s flicking your clit, fast, ruthless, wet sounds filling the room as his fingers slide over your swollen bud. Your back arches off the sheets, nails digging into his shoulders.
“God—fuck, fuck—yes—” you choke, every word cut off by another ragged moan. “So fucking good, Channie—fucking hell—”
And then he’s slamming them back inside you, deeper this time, curling up as he fucks you with a pace that makes your vision blur. The heel of his hand grinds your clit while his fingers work you mercilessly, wet, obscene sounds matching your cries.
“Oh, fuck,” he growls, almost frantic. “Take it for me—give me everything, please—”
You can’t even form words anymore, just curses tangled with his name, your voice breaking apart. “Oh my fucking god—yes, yes, right there— right there, you’re perfect, Chan—you’re so—”
Your whole body seizes when he curls his fingers just right, dragging hard against that spot that has you screaming. The pressure builds so fast it’s blinding, your vision going white at the edges.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—Chan, I’m gonna—oh my god—”
He doesn’t let up, doesn’t even breathe, his forehead pressed to yours, his teeth gritted as he watches you fall apart. “That’s it, baby—give it to me. Cum for me. Cum all over my fucking fingers.”
And you do. The orgasm rips through you so violently you nearly sob, thighs snapping shut around his wrist, back arching clean off the bed. You’re cursing, moaning his name over and over as waves tear through you, milking his fingers until you’re shaking, drenched, trembling in his hold.
The sight of you, wrecked, destroyed, breaking under him, pushes him over the edge too. A strangled groan rips out of his throat, low and guttural, and his hips jerk helplessly against the sheets. He’s not even touching himself, but he’s gone, cock twitching as he spills hot and messy all over himself. Just from you. Just from giving you everything.
“F-fuck—baby, oh my god—” His voice cracks, needy and ruined, his forehead dropping against your neck as he rides it out, still working his fingers inside you even as his own body convulses.
You’re both shaking, clinging to each other, his chest heaving, yours pressed tight to his, his fingers still buried in you like he can’t bear to let go.
His mouth finds yours in a rush, lips crashing against yours, sloppy and hungry, tasting of sweat and the wreckage you both made. He’s panting into the kiss, swallowing your moans, like if he stops touching or kissing you, he’ll fall apart completely.
You gasp against his mouth, every nerve in your body still sparking, your thighs trembling. “Chan—” You pull back just enough to breathe, brushing your lips over his, your voice ragged but steady. “Fuck, baby, that was so good.”
The words hit him like a blow. His whole body jolts, a broken whimper spilling into your mouth, his eyes squeezed shut as if he might actually cry. “Yeah baby?” He kisses you harder, deeper, teeth clashing, almost frantic to prove himself again, even though your praise already undid him.
Your hand cups his jaw, steadying him, and he shudders under your touch “...you’re such a good boy for me.”
The words fall soft against his lips, but they don't just touch him, they land like a charge. For a second he freezes, eyes going wide. His breath hitched, shallow and fast, and the weight of him shifts, pressing into you harder like he needs the contact to stay upright.
“F-fuck—” It tears out of him. His face collapses into your neck, forehead hot against your skin, and he buries himself there as though hiding will steady him. He starts to tremble, small, helpless shakes through his shoulders, the kind that come when something inside finally gives. “Baby…” His voice is muffled, fraying against your throat. His lips brush at your skin in messy little kisses, then harder, clumsy messy little bites. His hands clutch at your back, fingers digging in.
You thread your fingers through his hair and stay there, steadying him with the same gentle pressure you used to pull him up earlier. “Yeah, my good boy,” you whisper, measured and soft, and the sound of it, approval, makes him break open.
You can feel the tension in his shoulders dissolve, fingers loosening until they’re soft against your back.
The man the world sees, the leader, the steady, guarded presence, peels away in thin layers until all that’s left is this: a boy who leans into your hands and trusts you completely.
You stroke the nape of his damp hair, the heat of him still clinging to your chest, and you realize how utterly he’s given himself over. He doesn’t need to carry the armor, the composure, the control he wears in public. He’s not here to be anyone but yours, to follow the subtle weight of your hand, to respond to the quiet pull of your approval.
Everything he’s ever held onto; the confidence, the assertiveness, the careful restraint, falls away in this purple light. And in its place, he is yours, willing to do exactly what you want, desperate for you to tell him he’s good, to let him know that this is enough.
Watching him surrender like this, you can see how much it pleases him, how much he thrives on being needed and directed, how much he trusts you with the part of him that the world never gets to see.
And you know, with every shiver that runs through him, every tremor of his breath, that he would trade all of that public armor, all of that careful control, just to be this, to be your good boy.
—
+++ authors note: dear anon, sorry for taking so long. i hope you enjoyed it as much as i did. i actually loved writing sub top channie, this is SO bang chan coded......
✧ thank you for reading my stuff!! you can check out my intro + masterlist post to find all my works in one place. ✧ want to be tagged when i post? drop your comment in my taglist post
I just woke up and the first thing i saw was chan wearing all black n formal with his pretty pretty hands and black painted nails and im kinda going crazy rn :( imagine him going back home to u after the promotions and u waiting patiently to suck on those fingers not even in a dirty way just satisfying the oral fixation that daddy gave u cuz of how delicious his hands look while slowly slipping into sub space 😖😖
in which you're overwhelmed so you suck on chris' fingers.
╰┈➤ bang chan x f. reader
╰┈➤ tags: some angst, daddy!chan, sub space, praise, petnames (baby, angel, baby girl)
╰┈➤ word count: 1.6k
i added a sprinkle of angst in here for plot, sorry can't help it 😖
.·:¨¨ ≈☆≈ ¨¨:·.
chris looked completely different coming home from work. during the band's press conference for their new comeback, photos of him circulated around the internet as he wore a signature all black outfit. your man looked clean and sophisticated, yet the contrast of those goddamn black nails that you painted on for him added that needed edge to his aura.
yet he came bursting inside your apartment wearing his comfy hoodie and shorts. "baby!" you greet him with open arms, engulfing his scent that you missed so badly. chris nestles his cheek against yours as his arms tightly locks you close to him.
chest to chest, heart to heart. no matter how long the two of you are apart, you'd always wait for him.
"missed you so much!" he squeals, slightly lifting your body up from the floor, making you giggle. he presses his lips into your own, tasting you after a long time. he kisses you like a true gentleman with his big hand behind the back of head for support, guiding and leading you. you missed this, you missed feeling so cared for.
you take his hands into your own, dragging him to the couch. he invites you to sit on top of him, straddling his thighs.
"yeah?" he smiles at you, his pretty eyes turning into crescents.
"mhm! you always work so hard. i'm so lucky to have you, especially here, right now with me."
chris tilts his head to the side as he listens to you wholeheartedly. "i... i know it's probably hard to balance your work and, uh, i guess me?" you awkwardly chuckle. and at those words, you feel his hands tightly squeezing your hips. chris doesn't seem to notice but his mouth was unconsciously forming into a small frown, eyebrows creased as he listens to you.
"b-but you did it! you always know how to do it. and..." suddenly, the air around you shifts and you feel a heavy weight on your chest.
do you really want to tell him?
"and even though there's times where i feel like... like..."
why did you feel overwhelmed all at once?
you look away from your boyfriend, staring at the wall over his shoulder as you attempt to recollect your thoughts — stitching up the correct words as not to aggregate his concern.
"angel? what's wrong?" his voice was soft. he places a finger gently underneath your chin to direct your gaze back at him.
worried eyes. fuck. he just got home from work and you're already worrying him. you shouldn't have started it. you should've just kept quiet and—
"tell daddy what you feel," chris says lowly.
chris uses that name to refer to himself unintentionally, but every time he says it, it was as if that term was a key to let your guard down. taking a deep breath, and after an encouraging smile from him, you continue.
"i don't know," you admit softly, "sometimes i feel like such a big burden to you. instead of stressing about work, you stress about me too. i don't want to make you feel like you have two jobs."
"angel, you're not a burden, you know that! you're not a job!" he exclaims in a whisper, slightly making you flinch yet you push yourself to finish what you've started.
"see? i mean," you shrug your shoulders defeatedly, "i could have been congratulating you more on your comeback, spoiling you, giving you the rest that you need, but here i am making this all about myself!" it all came crashing to you; a surge of emotions. you wanted to stray away from his hold and stand up. it was too embarrassing to let him see you like this, for crying about such a thing.
"no," he says through gritted teeth, "my baby's not going anywhere. come here, come here," chris was quick to pull you back closer to him to soothe you. you feel that your heart was going to burst as it clenches, pounding so hard that chris can probably feel it. he presses your upper half onto his, cradling you tightly.
"don't say those things, angel, hm?" he kisses the top of your head, "daddy loves to take care of you. that's what i love to do, baby. think about like this — daddy loves you so much that he’s working so hard to give you everything that you want. you just have to trust me, little one. do you trust daddy?”
you nod your head up and down, biting your lip as you slowly calm down. although that was not enough for chris.
“daddy needs to hear you, baby. use your big girl words.”
feeling all soft and fluttery on the inside, you shyly respond, “i trust you, daddy.”
he ruffles the hair on top of your head, proud of your answer. "you know how tough schedules are during times like these, yea?" he asks, referring to his comeback, "but we've been going strong, angel. we've survived and we've been through this together. daddy will do everything just to tend to his baby's needs, just like he always do."
chris notices that your mind was slowly turning cloudy and mushy; he sees that shift in you so fast as if it’s second nature for him. hence, he presses a gentle kiss on your cheek and pulls you back into him.
he lifts you up a bit to change your position in his lap, making you sit sideways with the left side of your body pressed against him. with your body in between his thighs, chris makes you stretch your legs on the couch as one of his big, veiny hand rubs up and down your exposed skin.
"good girl. come to daddy, baby girl. that's it," he tilts his head up, looking at you in awe as if cooing at you, "daddy’s right here. you feel his arms around you, yea?” he chuckles when you nod cutely.
the position you were made you feel vulnerable as he rocks you back and forth, slowly humming a tune with his fingers tapping to the beat.
black nails.
you remembered the instance where you painted his nails black for the press conference. it was specifically a difficult time for you — not because you weren’t good at painting nails — but because his hand was too distracting. it was too attractive for your own sanity; long yet boney at the same time with his veins full on display.
in a second, your mouth was craving to suck on them.
"hands," you mutter, looking up at him with big eyes.
"hm?" he smiles at you, chuckling, "hands?" you nod.
"what about them, angel?"
suddenly, you feel your cheeks heat up as you bite your lip. chris knows about your oral fixation, of course he does. you don't have to tell him that you have one because it was evident. at this moment, he was just playing with you like the huge tease that he is.
"i-it's pretty."
"pretty because my baby girl painted them for me, yeah?"
chris notices that after that, you couldn't take your eyes away from his hand that was resting against your thighs. he knows you're becoming needy, that your mouth was craving to suck on it. he uses this to his advantage to rub your soft thighs up and down to make you squirm.
without warning, he leans down to lowly whisper in your ear, sending shivers all over your meek frame, "wanna suck on daddy's fingers?"
chris earns a delicious whine from you at that very moment. "yeah, you do?" he replies and hears another whine. "words, baby. or you're not getting it."
the thought of not being able to satisfy your current fixation had you pouting and pressing your cheek into chris' chest. he lifts his hand closer to your face just to see how your breath quickens. his hand clasps onto the side of your face while his thumb, painted in black polish, grazes gently across your bottom lip. finally, you give in.
"wan' them in my mouth, daddy," you whisper. and with the way you looked into chris' eyes, he can't help it but to give in.
anything to satisfy your needs.
"here, open, open," he carefully inserts both his index and middle finger inside your mouth, and you instantly suck. chris studies you intently, learning how the muscles in your face relax and your entire body submit to his hold. he leans back on the couch so that the both of you can get comfortable.
"you're such a patient girl for me, baby. always so patient. daddy needs to reward you at every chance he gets... fuck you're sucking so hard now, angel." he gives your head a kiss again in adoration, "you like that idea, huh? my angel likes her rewards from daddy, mhm? is sucking on daddy's fingers one of them?"
"mhmm," you hum, your eyes creasing in a small smile. you can't help but to use your tongue to idly dance around his fingers as you suck deeper, wanting to feel as much of his hot, long digits inside you. chris groans lowly at your ministrations.
"aww, baby. don't worry. you don't have to suck so hard, daddy's here. i'm not going anywhere anymore, yeah? let your mind go blank, angel. slip into that pretty little space of yours."
chris knows the heightened responsibility he has when he's gotten you so vulnerable like this. he keeps a sharp eye on you for any sign of discomfort, and holds you in his arms a bit firmer.
"so, so proud of you," he slowly inches his hand back and forth now, letting his fingers glide in and out. this action made you whimper, your eyes fluttering shut in euphoria.
"you like that?" he smirks, licking his lips. "you're so, so cute. so divine like this. i should let you suck on my fingers more, huh?"
chris doesn't want to say it now, but what he had in his mind was a more... explicit idea.
warnings ; suggestive!! and in public!! flirty keeho (this needs its own warning tbh..) & nothing else i noticed c:
notes ; lowercase intended!!!! pls i need him so bad :P but i've never really done this b4 (writing?!1!2?1!1?) so i hope u guys enjoy!!! ^__^ i also broke it up so it could b easier to read??? soz if that makes it worse >__< feedback is always nice!!! :3
"i wanna go home"
that phrase has rung in your ears countless times as you and keeho walk around the antique store, a small store that caught your eye last time you both hung out.
"cmon kee, we just got here" you hum out, looking at the mirrors. "go wait in the car if you're gonna be rushing me".
he huffs, walking up behind you and leaning his head on your shoulder. "cmon mama, let's just go home" his hands sneakily wrapping around your waist.. "we've been out all day.. i just wanna get you home" his face a little too close to your ear
"keeho stop it" you huff, face flushing as you look at him through the mirror you were both standing in front of. he hums at your words, not caring as he pulls out his phone. "let's take a picture.. my pretty girl and a pretty antique mirror, it'll be cute" he chimes, trying to distract you from his hands, slowly trailing up your waist.
you fix your hair, smiling for the photo as he holds his phone up, taking a few photos, watching you. "such a pretty smile mama" he hums, voice low as he takes a couple more photos. your face flushes more at his words, attempting to turn around. "keeho you're so swee-" but before you could finish your sentence, his big hand presses your upper back, bending you over the shelf, wobbling slightly. a small gasp leaves your mouth as you choke back a whine.
keeho hums lowly, hand slowly trailing to your hip.. "y'look even prettier like this" eyes looking up to your widened ones. "kee, there are people around!!" you whisper shout, but your wobbly knees and whiney voice don't seem too convincing.
keeho pushes himself against you, groaning slightly as his free hand runs up and down your waist.. "look at me mama" he hums, voice low. you turn around, face flushed and eyes wide as you look back at him, met with his sly smile, half lidded eyes looking down at you, and phone camera pointed right at you.
he snaps a couple photos, angling it up to snap a couple mirror photos, your embarrassed face and his hand on your lower back, sliding up to your shoulder to pull you back up.
